THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT  OF 
JOSEPH  P.   LOEB 


THE  CARAVAN  MAN 


"  I  SAY,  AREN'T  YOU  REALLY  GOING  TO  SPEAK 
TO  ME  ANY  MORE?"    fiagt  138 


THE 
CARAVAN  MAN 

BY 

ERNEST  GOODWIN 

WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BT 
MORGAN  DENNIS,   U.S.M.C. 


BOSTON  AND   NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

Caitier.sibe  pre0s 
1918 


COPYRIGHT,    1917,   BY   AINSLEK    MAGAZINE    CO. 
COPYRIGHT,    19:8,   BY  ERNEST  GOODWIN 

ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 

Published  September  H)i8 


PS 
35/3 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"  I    SAY,    ARE  N'T    YOU    REALLY   GOING    TO    SPEAK   TO 

ME  ANY  MORE?" Frontispiece 

"  ARE  YOU  A  SAMPLE   OF  THE   TELEGRAPH-BOYS 

ABOUT  HERE  ?  " l"JO 

"  IT  'S  AWFULLY  KIND  OF  YOU  " 266 

f\         "I  —  I   LIKED  YOU  WHEN  YOU  WERE  MR.  JoNES  "     .    328 

X 


682945 


THE  CARAVAN  MAN 


THE  CARAVAN  MAN 

CHAPTER  I 

SUDDENLY  she  stopped,  stooped,  attempted 
to  pick  something  off  the  pavement,  failed, 
and  began  hastily  taking  off  her  glove.  With  the 
alacrity  that  most  clearly  distinguishes  a  man 
offering  service  to  a  pretty  woman,  Bamfield 
stepped  forward,  picked  up  the  coin,  and  handed 
it  to  her.  She  had  said,  "No, no!"  as  he  leant  down. 
Now  as  she  took  the  coin  she  looked  blank.  "Oh, 
dear,"  she  said,  "you've  spoilt  my  luck." 

"  I  'm  so  sorry,"  said  Bamfield.  " I  never  thought 
for  a  moment —  What  have  I  done?" 

"I'd  just  seen  it,"  she  answered.  "Look!  a 
lucky  sixpence,  a  sixpence  with  a  hole  in  it.  Any 
body  might  have  picked  it  up;  in  fact,  it  can't 
have  been  here,  on  the  pavement  in  Oxford  Street, 
for  more  than  a  second  or  two.  Perhaps  the  owner" 
—  she  looked  round,  but  no  one  seemed  to  be  ap 
proaching  in  search  of  a  dropped  sixpence.  "I  sup 
pose  it  is  really  mine  —  or  yours  — " 

"Ours,  perhaps,"  said  Bamfield. 

"  But  it  does  n't  mean  luck  for  me  now." 

"Why  not?"  asked  Bamfield.  "You've  got  it, 
and  the  hole's  still  in  it." 


4  The  Caravan  Man 

"Ah,  but  I  ought  to  have  picked  it  up.  Thanks, 
of  course,  but  I  wish  you  had  noticed  that  I  was 
trying  to  keep  my  toe  on  it,  and  getting  my  glove 
off." 

"Sorry,"  said  Bamfield.  "You  see,  your  toe 
was  n't  on  it,  or  I  could  n't  have  seen  it,  and  I 
saw  you  were  unable  to  pick  it  up,  so,  naturally  — " 

"Well,"  she  said  with  a  pretty  touch  of  despair 
in  her  voice,  "it's  done  now.  But  it's  no  good  to 
me  since  you  gave  it  to  me.  One  must  pick  a  lucky 
sixpence  up  one's  self  if  one  wants  any  good  out 
of  it." 

"Then  perhaps  I  'm  to  have  the  luck,"  said  Bam 
field.  "I  picked  it  up,  I  held  it  in  my  hand,  and 
the  fact  that  I  gave  it  you  means  nothing.  Yes," 
he  continued  decidedly,  "it's  my  luck.  All  the 
luck's  mine  just  now.  Sorry  I  robbed  you,  of 
course,  but  —  by  Jove,"  he  broke  off,  "  it 's  true, 
the  luck's  mine  —  your  hand — "  He  looked  at 
her  ungloved  right  hand. 

She  looked  at  it  too.  "What's  wrong  with  my 
hand?"  she  demanded. 

"Wrong?"  said  Bamfield.  "Wrong!  —  you 
know  as  well  as  I  do  there's  nothing  wrong.  It's 
—  Oh,  by  the  way,  I  forgot.  I'm  a  complete 
stranger  to  you,  and  here  I  am  detaining  you,  and 
we're  both  stopping  dead  in  Oxford  Street  at 
half-past  one  in  the  afternoon,  taking  up  half  the 
pavement — " 


The  Caravan  Man  5 

"Well,"  she  said,  looking  at  him  quizzically, 
"we'll  part,  and  let  the  traffic  get  along.  But  can't 
you  tell  me,  in  three  words,  what  you  want  to  say 
about  my  hand?" 

She  had  wonderful  eyes,  violet;  her  lips,  parted 
smilingly,  gave  a  hint  of  flashing  teeth.  You  might 
walk  a  long  way  even  among  the  crowds  of  shop 
ping  women  in  Oxford  Street  and  not  meet  cheeks 
so  daintily  flushed.  Bamfield  looked  at  her,  hesi 
tated,  tried  to  sum  her  up,  saw  only  the  eyes  again. 
"I  say,"  he  ventured,  "will  you,  won't  you — ?" 

"Well?" 

"Come  and  have  some  breakfast?" 

She  laughed.  "Breakfast,  my  dear  man!  It's 
one  o'clock,  or  two  o'clock.  Whatever  hours  do 
you  keep?" 

"I  know  what  you  mean,"  replied  Bamfield, 
"but  you're  wrong.  It's  industry,  not  dissipation. 
Honest,"  he  continued  as  her  eyebrows  went  up, 
"  I  was  at  work  at  six  o'clock  this  morning.  I  Ve 
worked  right  up  to  half  an  hour  ago.  I  never 
stopped  a  minute  for  bite  or  sup,  and  only  think  of 
it  —  I  Ve  achieved  nothing  but  ruination.  Have 
you  ever  had  a  tract  given  you?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  "and  I  read  it  and  it  did 
me  a  world  of  good.  Are  you  going  to  give  me 
one?" 

"No,"  said  Bamfield;  "but  I  thought  that  if  there 
happened  to  be  a  Society  for  the  Prevention  of 


6  The  Caravan  Man 

Christian  Knowledge  —  Do  you  happen  to  know 
of  one?" 

"Of  course,"  she  answered.  They  were  nearing 
westward. 

"What  society?" 

"Why  — Society!" 

"Oh  —  that's  swift.  I  only  meant  that  if  there 
were  one,  properly  organized,  with  a  secretary,  and 
funds,  and  a  balance-sheet  on  the  wrong  side,  like 
all  really  praiseworthy  societies,  and  it  wanted 
tracts  to  spread  its  insidious  message,  I  could  write 
one  for  it,  a  really  sinful  one,  about  the  thoughtless 
young  man  who  gave  himself  into  the  clutches  of 
the  demon  of  industry,  in  spite  of  the  warnings  of 
his  friends,  and  at  last,  when  it  was  too  late,  he 
found  that  for  all  his  work  he  had  done  no  good, 
and  in  fact  he'd  only  spoilt  the  really  important 
bit  of  work  he  had  accomplished  before  he  took  to 
sinful  labour." 

"You  're  vague,  you  know,  and  rather  demoraliz 
ing,  I  shouldn't  wonder.  What's  all  this  about? 
Are  you  the  industrious  young  man?  'The  Parable 
of  the  Industrious  Young  Man'  —  it  sounds  good. 
And  is  your  piteous  tale  remotely  connected  with 
my  hands?" 

"Closely  linked.  My  story  is  a  sad  one,  but  I 
see  you  have  a  kind  face —  Here's  Pimani's. 
Shall  we?"  She  nodded,  and  they  went  in  and  up 
to  the  balcony,  and  he  found  a  table  sufficiently 


The  Caravan  Man  7 

secluded.  "Choose  something,  will  you?"  He 
handed  her  the  bill  of  fare.  "Give  me,"  to  the 
waiter,  "a  steak,  well  done,  a  potato,  baked  in  its 
jacket,  and  a  pint  of  beer." 

"Dainty,  ethereal  things  you  must  paint,"  she 
said. 

"However  did  you  guess?"  said  Bamfield,  aston 
ished. 

She  chose  a  soup  and  the  man  went  away. 

"  I  'm  clever  at  guessing.  I  was  right,  was  n't  I  ? " 

She  rested  her  elbows  on  the  table.  Bamfield's 
eyes  were  now  getting  intimate  with  her.  Her  hair 
was  strong  and  fresh-looking,  springing  vigorously 
from  her  temples.  Her  eyes  had  beautiful  lashes, 
but  he  saw  now  that  their  chief  quality  was  a  won 
derful  kindness.  She  was  the  sort  of  woman  to  put 
herself  to  trouble  to  do  you  a  service.  If  she  liked 
you,  at  any  rate;  if  she  did  n't —  But  who  can 
prophesy  what  a  woman  will  do  if  she  does  n't  like 
you? 

"Well,  now,  you're  an  artist,"  she  said,  "and  I 
gather  that  you've  been  making  rather  a  mess  of 
things." 

"I  have,  rather.  Decidedly.  Horribly.  Irre 
trievably  —  no,  not  as  bad  as  that,  but  just  now 
I've  the  feeling  of  hopeless  and  unmeasured  ruin 


on  me." 


''Your  affairs,  or  just  a  picture?" 

"A  picture.   My  affairs  are  quite  the  other  way 


8  The  Caravan  Man 

about.  I  'd  like  to  tell  you.  But  about  the  pic 
ture,  and  your  hands.  I  'd  really  finished  the  thing, 
and  then  I  started  messing  it  about.  Every  man 
who  paints  knows  the  fascination  and  the  folly  of 
touching  a  thing  when  once  you  've  honestly  and 
fairly  finished  it.  There's  something  inside  you 
that  tells  you  when  to  let  it  alone  — " 

"  And  then  something  else  inside  you  makes  you 
go  at  it  again?" 

"Exactly.  It  was  quite  all  right,  and  yet  not 
quite  all  right.  The  hands,  you  know.  I  had  a 
look  at  the  thing  last  night  just  before  I  went  to 
bed,  and  kept  dreaming  about  it,  and  this  morning 
when  I  woke,  somewhere  round  about  six  o'clock, 
I  made  up  my  mind  to  get  up  and  put  them  right. 
A  touch  or  so  would  do  it,  and  I  hopped  out  of  bed, 
put  on  my  slippers,  slipped  into  my  studio,  knocked 
up  some  paint,  and  put  the  touch."  He  drank  some 
beer  mournfully. 

"Goon.  What  happened?" 

"Either  I  put  the  right  touch  in  the  wrong  place 
or  vice  versa.  I  saw  the  danger,  made  a  desperate 
effort  to  recover  myself,  slipped,  and  went  over  a 
precipice  a  thousand  feet  deep,  with  sharp  needle 
points  of  rock  sticking  up  at  the  bottom." 

"You're  inclined  to  the  florid  in  diction —  You 
mean  you  spoilt  the  hands?" 

"Spoilt!  You  should  see  'em  now,  or  rather 
before  I  just  sludged  'em  across  in  despair  and 


The  Caravan  Man  9 

chucked  it  —  lumps  of  pudding.  Hands !  They 
were  n't  even  decent  feet." 

"Is  that  considered  a  drawback  in  hands?" 

"Oh,  but  I  mean,  simply  awful.  Every  bit  of 
drawing  lost.  Not  but  what,  after  all,  perhaps  it's 
a  good  job,  for  between  you  and  me  they  were  n't 
up  to  the  mark  in  the  first  place.  The  girl  that  sits 
for  me  has  n't  got  the  loveliest  hands  in  the  world. 
I  'd  decided  that  they  would  do  if  I  just  —  well 
put  myself  into  them,  as  it  were." 

"Risky,  is  n't  it,  putting  yourself  into  a  girl's 
hands?" 

Bamfield  chuckled. 

"You're  a  treat.  Dear  little  sixpence,  how  soon 
it's  got  busy.  Well,  after  all,  as  I  say,  the  hands 
were  n't  up  to  the  rest." 

"Much  'rest'?"  she  asked. 

Bamfield  dipped  his  nose  into  his  tankard.  "A 
good  bit." 

"H'm!  so  that's  the  sort  of  man  you  are.  You 
squander  your  youth  — " 

"Oh,  come,  don't,  please,  talk  like  that,  I'm 
rather  cracked  on  this,  you  know,  and  you  never 
know  when  I  might  turn  serious  and  come  out  with 
a  tremendous  defence  of  the  nude." 

"Don't,"  she  said.  "  It  might  mislead  the  waiter. 
I'm  sure  he's  interested  already,  and  he'll  get  cer 
tain  definite  and  mistaken  ideas  about  me  and  you 
if  he  hears.  I  don't  mind  about  you  —  you  're  only 


i  o  The  Caravan  Man 

an  artist  and  you  don't  matter  —  but  I  am  a  re 
spectable  mar — "  She  stopped. 

"  I  know,"  said  Bamfield. 

"How  did  you?" 

"You're  not  the  only  clever  one  at  guessing, 
young  madam.  For  all  you're  so  delightfully  slen 
der  and  girlish,  you're  married,  and  no  one  would 
take  you  for  more  than  three-and-twenty,  but  you  're 
nearly  thirty.  —  Annoyed  with  me?"  he  broke  off. 

"No,  I  don't  think  so.  And  you're  horribly 
right." 

"Don't  you  mind  me.  You  see,  I'm  an  artist, 
and  I  know  such  a  lot  of  what  women  are  from 
what  they  look  like.  In  a  way  it's  my  bread-and- 
butter,  is  n't  it?  —  so  you  can't  blame  me.  I  know 
lots  more  about  you ;  I  can't  tell  you,  of  course,  but 
I  know." 

"How  do  you  know,  and  what  do  you  know?" 

"Well,  your  hands  —  they're  quite  exception 
ally  good.  I'm  not  paying  you  a  blackguardly 
compliment,  but  they  are.  That's  what  made  me 
jump  so,  after  the  failure  I  made  this  morning.  I  'd 
spoilt  my  picture,  and  I  lost  all  confidence  in  my 
drawing,  and  I  felt  I  must  find  a  super-excellent 
pair  of  hands  to  work  from;  and  then  came  the  six 
pence,  and  there  were  you  with  your  glove  off  and 
your  hand  showing." 

"What  else?" 

"You're —  No,  I  daren't.   Not  yet,  anyhow. 


The  Caravan  Man  1 1 

Wait  till  I've  finished  my  beer  and  all  discretion 
vanishes,  and  then  I'll  risk  a  snub.:> 

"Oh,  it's  something  I'd  snub  you  for?" 

"I  shouldn't  wonder,"  said  Bamfield.  "I  sup 
pose  you're  like  all  other  women,  unreason  itself. 
The  lovelier  a  woman  is,  the  more  she  tries  to  im 
prove  herself,  to  make  a  man  conscious  of  it.  And 
then,  as  soon  as  he  realizes,  and  in  his  simple,  inno 
cent  fashion  begins  to  respond  to  the  fascination, 
she  snubs  him." 

"H'm.  You've  done  a  little  innocent  responding 
in  your  time,  have  n't  you?" 

"How  can  I  help  it?  I  paint  the  nude.  I  —  well, 
I  love  it.  Do  you  like  beautiful  things?" 

"I  love  them." 

"Well,  so  do  I."  He  leant  his  elbows  on  the 
table  and  looked  at  her  meditatively.  "Have  you 
ever  thought  of  what  life  means?" 

She  was  frankly  puzzled.  "Do  you  know,  I  half 
believe  you  're  John  the  Baptist.  Are  you  going  to 
convert  me?  Really  you  needn't.  I'm  quite  all 
right." 

He  persisted  in  being  serious.  "What  I  mean  is, 
what  is  it  that  matters?  You've  got  your  own 
ideas,  no  doubt,  but  life's  a  puzzle,  is  n't  it!  Well, 
do  you  give  it  up?" 

"I  can't  say.  I  suppose  I  do.  I  find  it  tremen 
dously  interesting,  all  the  same." 

"Well,  I  think  if  it's  got  any  meaning,  any 


1 2  The  Caravan  Man 

purpose  at  all,  beauty's  got  something  to  do 
with  it." 

"I  dare  say." 

"No,  you  don't ;  you  mean  I  'm  boring  you.  What 
are  you  going  to  have  after  that  soup?" 

"Would  they  let  me  have  —  a  steak  and  a  pint 
of  beer?" 

He  stared  aghast.  She  laughed  delightedly. 
"Oh,  John  the  Baptist!  But  I  must  have  some 
thing.  You  can  order  me  some  cold  chicken,  and 
after  that  we'll  have  some  coffee  and  a  cigarette." 

"We  shall  have  to  go  somewhere  else  for  the 
smoke,  I  think;  they  won't  let  you  smoke  in  here." 

"Does  n't  matter.  You  can  smoke.  I  don't 
really  care  about  it  ...  Now,  go  on;  talk." 

"What  shall  we  talk  about?" 

"Oh,  stick  to  your  subject.  Tell  me  of  life's 
great  purpose.  Go  on.  There  you  are  in  the  desert, 
in  a  goatskin  and  water-bottle,  and  I  'm  sitting  at 
your  feet  like  the  Woman  of  Samaria,  with  my 
hair  down — " 

"That  was  the  Magdalene,  was  n't  it?" 

"Was  it?  I'm  not  a  Magdalene.  Anyhow,  I'm 
sitting  in  the  dust,  awestruck,  drinking  in  your 
burning  words.  The  mystery  that  lies  behind  life, 
could  we  but  penetrate  the  veil  of  the  flesh  and 
reach  to  the  unknowable  Something  that  hides  be 
hind  —  Go  on,  John." 

He  laughed  vexedly.   "  I  was  an  ass,  I  know  — 


The  Caravan  Man  1 3 

but  somehow,  when  any  one  challenges  me  and 
my  work,  I  become  just  that  sort  of  serious  and 
gloomy  person." 

"Serious  and  gloomy!  Not  a  bit;  you're  amus 
ing." 

He  wished  he  knew  her  well  enough  to  display 
his  irritation.  He  had  to  be  apologetic  instead.  "  I 
know  I'm  stodgy,  but  I  suppose  I'm  still  dismal 
over  this  morning's  mess.  Even  meeting  you 
has  n't  put  me  right." 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  you  worry  like  that 
over  a  hand  badly  painted?" 

"Yes."  He  spoke  seriously.  "I  don't  suppose 
you  —  I  don't  suppose  any  woman  at  any  time 
takes  a  painter  very  seriously,  especially  if  he 
works  in  my  line." 

"Works?" 

"I  thought  so.  That's  your  idea.  Work,  for 
a  man,  to  a  woman  means  something  physically 
strenuous,  chopping  up  logs,  or  carrying  hundred 
weights  of  coal  about.  Blacksmith,  ploughman, 
chasing  cattle  on  a  half-broken  horse  —  You  ought 
to  go  and  live  in  film-land." 

"Well,  dinkying  about  with  a  paint-brush  and 
bits  of  colour — " 

"Oh,  finish  your  chicken  and  let's  have  cof 
fee." 

"Your  damned  chicken." 

"I  beg  your  pardon?" 


1 4  The  Caravan  Man 

"I  only  said  it  for  you  —  'your  damned  chicken' 

—  that's  what  you  wanted  to  say,  was  n't  it?" 
"Yes." 

She  lifted  her  eyebrows,  leaning  back,  undisguis- 
edly  laughing.  "Temper!"  she  said. 

He  had  to  laugh.  "You  are — " 

"I  know  I  am.  Dear  man,  I'm  a  fool.  1  dare 
say  painting  is  work,  only  —  somehow  —  well,  the 
nude,  you  said?" 

"Yes." 

"Ladies?" 

"Principally." 

"Well,  then,  I  admit  one  gets  the  idea  it's  more 

—  more  fun  than  work." 

"Just  the  indulgence  of  a  depraved  taste,  culti 
vated  into  a  habit,  and  unfortunately  with  a 
market  for  the  pernicious  product?" 

"Be  fair  to  me.  I  don't  really  know  anything 
at  all  about  it.  I've  never  thought  at  all.  Go  on; 
I'll  listen.  And,  of  course,  in  a  way  it's  a  compli 
ment  to  my  sex,  is  n't  it?" 

"It  is.  And  at  the  back  of  it  is  something  deeper 
and  wider  and  bigger  than  just  a  compliment  to 
your  sex  —  there's  just  the  beginning  of  the  unrid 
dling  —  Oh,  I  must  n't  bore  you  like  this." 

"No,  go  on,  don't  stop.  I  believe  I  know  what 
you  mean.  The  unriddling  of  the  problem  of  life. 

—  I  say,  what  fun!   Do  you  hear  what  they're 
playing?" 


The  Caravan  Man  1 5 

He  listened  to  the  band.  "No." 

"I  don't,  either,  but  it's  revue  music;  just  the 
embodiment  of  all  that's  frivolous  and  banal,  and 
here  we  sit  talking  about  life,  and  —  wonder  of 
wonders!  —  I'm  deeply  interested.  I'm  being 
improved.  I  feel  it.  Honestly  now,  you  are  John 
the  Baptist,  are  n't  you?" 

"Yes." 

"Does  anybody  else  know  but  me?" 

"None,  so  far.  I  have  chosen  you  as  my  disciple." 

She  mused.  "Staff,  water-bottle,  and  goatskin. 
I  hardly  think  a  goatskin  would  make  up  into  any 
thing  chic  —  I  must  talk  to  my  dressmaker.  In  the 
meantime,  give  me  the  passwords —  We're  going 
to  have  a  sect,  or  a  cult,  are  n't  we?" 

,"Yes,  please"  (to  the  waiter's  suggestion  of 
sugar  with  his  coffee).  He  lit  a  cigarette.  "I'm 
going  on.  You've  started  me,  and  you've  got  to 
put  up  with  it.  Beauty's  the  one  solid  bit  of 
ground  beneath  my  feet.  The  people  who  have  a 
purpose  in  life  don't  matter.  There  are  hardly  any 
of  them,  and  they're  all  wrong,  most  likely.  Any 
how,  all  their  purposes  are  different." 

"Cancel  each  other?" 

"That's  it.  But  you  and  I,  and  practically 
every  other  man  and  woman  in  the  world,  we  just 
follow  our  inclinations." 

"Do  we?"  Her  eyes  laughed  at  him  and  he  felt 
a  stirring  within  him. 


1 6  The  Caravan  Man 

"We  do,  even  when  our  inclination  is  not  to  fol 
low  our  inclination.  That's  perfectly  clear,  if  you 
stop  to  think,  but  you  don't." 

"Don't  what?" 

"Don't  stop  to  think." 

"Not  very  often,  but  I  'm  making  up  for  it  now. 
My  poor  brain!" 

"I  mean  to  give  it  you.  Well,  a  man's  inclina 
tions  come  to  him  from  outside.  Something  at 
tracts  him,  and  he  follows." 

"I  know  he  does.  He  ought  to  know  better." 

"Now,  what  attracts  him  most?" 

"You  say  it." 

"Beauty.  When—" 

"Right!  John  knows." 

" — When  man  was  a  primitive  savage,  just 
sufficiently  above  his  material  necessities  to  have  a 
thought  to  spare  for  something  beyond  grub  and 
a  hole  to  sleep  in,  he  picked  his  cave,  other  things 
being  equal,  where  he  got  a  good  view.  Long 
before  that  he  took  for  his  wife  the  girl  he  thought 
prettiest." 

"Or  deftest  at  skinning —  skinning  ichthyosauri 
for  lunch.  They  gave  me  some  nice  chicken  here." 

"I  said,  apart  from  the  material."  He  ran  his 
fingers  through  his  hair. 

She  laughed.  "Go  on,"  she  said.  "Never  mind 
me.  I  have  to  joke,  but  I  do  like  listening  to 
you." 


The  Caravan  Man  1 7 

"Well,  you've  got  a  fact  there's  no  getting  away 
from.  Beauty  is  the  mainspring  of  life.  Well, 
what's  the  most  beautiful  thing  in  the  world?" 

"I'm  passee  now,"  she  said  dreamily,  "but  you 
should  have  seen  me  before  I  was  married." 

"The  most  beautiful  thing  in  all  life  is  the 
beauty  of  woman,  and  if  you  like  to  think  it  out, 
it's  as  if  the  eternal  riddle  that's  at  the  back  of 
everything  our  senses  make  us  aware  of  culminates 
in  that  one  master-riddle,  the  beauty  of  woman. 
And,  by  Jove,  the  answer's  there,  too." 

"And  what's  the  answer?" 

" I  don't  know.  But  it's  there  and  nowhere  else." 

"That's  very  nice  of  you.  Well,  I  must  go.  In 
the  name  of  my  sex  I  thank  you.  I  ought  to  have 
sympathized  more  with  you  over  those  hands.  I 
am  really  very  sorry.  You  mean,  don't  you,  that 
you  work  seriously?  I  believe  you,  and  those  hands 
are  a  blow.  I  know.  I  wish  you  luck.  You'll  get 
them  right.  I  wish  I  could  help  you." 

"Thanks.  You  have." 

"Havel?  How?" 

"I've  been  noting  the  drawing  of  your  hand  as  it 
lay  on  the  table.  I've  got  it.  It's  lovely;  so's  your 
wrist.  But  there,  you're  altogether —  Anyhow, 
I've  made  good  use  of  my  time.  You  must  go?" 

"Yes." 

"All  right.  Thanks  for  coming.  It's  been  jolly 
—  or  hasn't  it?" 


1 8  The  Caravan  Man 

"I've  enjoyed  it  ever  so  much."  They  both 
looked  at  one  another. 

Then,  "No,  I  won't,"  said  Bamfield. 

"You're  a  dear  man,  and  the  discreetest  I  ever 
met .  .  .  Look  here,  would  you  like  me  to?" 

"You  know  very  well,"  he  began. 

"I  can't  to-day.  But  where  is  it?" 

He  wrote  on  a  card. 

"How  does  one —  Oh,  well,  a  taxi  will  do  it. 
And  that's  your  name?" 

"Yes.  When  will  you?" 

"It's  going  to  be  either  to-day  or  to-morrow  — 
or  never.  You  see,  I  don't  live  in  London.  I'm 
just  up  for  a  week  or  so,  and  I  'm  staying  with  my 
sister  at  Chelsea.  I 'm  buying  her  a  hat.  She's  not 
very  well  off,  and  she's  an  invalid,  never  able  to 
go  out  of  her  room;  so  whenever  I  come  to  town  I 
buy  her  a  hat,  and  she  likes  to  look  at  it.  Is  n't 
that  silly?" 

There  was  a  suspicion  of  a  tear  in  her  eye.  "  I  'm 
glad  I  met  you,"  said  Bamfield. 

"Now,  I  may  go  back  to-night,  in  which  case, 
good-bye;  but  I  may  stay  over  till  to-morrow  night. 
Even  then  —  I  'm  very  busy,  but  if  you  're  going 
to  be  in  to-morrow  afternoon  — " 

"I '11  be  in." 

"Then,  it's  just  possible.  And  you  can  show  me 
what  you  've  managed  to  do  with  those  disastrous 
hands." 


The  Caravan  Man  1 9 

"Be  good-natured.  When  you  come  —  do  come 
—  sit  for  just  ten  minutes  while  I  draw  in  from 
your  hands.  Will  you?" 

"Oh,  I  never  promised  to  turn  model;  but  we'll 


see." 


He  paid  the  waiter;  she  adjusted  her  veil  at  one 
of  the  long  wall  mirrors ;  they  went  downstairs,  and 
she  said  good-bye.  He  raised  his  hat.  She  nodded, 
and  he  wondered  what  drew  him  most,  the  beauty, 
or  the  kindliness  of  her  face.  "It's  been  jolly," 
she  said,  and  turned  westwards  on  foot. 


CHAPTER  II 

BAMFIELD'S  studio  stood  secluded  among 
the  ample  gardens  of  the  large  houses  in 
Engadine  Road,  Primrose  Hill.  You  approached 
it  down  a  narrow  lane,  discreetly  gated ;  at  the  end 
of  this  lane  the  studio  stood  in  a  patch  of  garden, 
which  could  afford  pleasure  only  to  the  lover  of 
docks;  these  grew  thickly  on  every  available  inch 
of  soil  not  used  for  pathway. 

In  the  main  the  studio  was  a  room  thirty  feet  or 
so  square,  twenty  high,  with  a  great  north  light  on 
the  sloping  roof  and  a  window  running  from  this 
almost  down  to  the  floor  from  the  very  eaves.  On 
the  left  as  you  entered  the  door  was  a  small  kitchen. 
In  the  studio  itself  a  flight  of  stairs  at  one  end  ran 
up  to  a  gallery,  eight  or  ten  feet  wide,  and  eight 
feet  above  the  level  of  the  studio  floor.  Here  were 
Bamfield's  sleeping  arrangements. 

The  studio  was  bare,  free  for  the  most  part  from 
the  assembly  of  properties  with  which  the  average 
artist  loves  to  surround  himself.  It  was  in  fact  a 
workshop,  the  action  ground  of  a  man  who  painted 
in  the  spirit  of  sheer  fighting.  It  was  a  battle 
ground  where  Bamfield,  never  satisfied,  always 
smarting  under  the  sense  of  defeat,  rose  as  it  were 
a  beaten  but  unconquered  man  from  the  termina- 


The  Caravan  Man  2 1 

tion  of  each  attempt  to  make  a  painting  which  he 
himself  could  accept,  and  flung  himself  into  a  fresh 
struggle  with  another,  striving  with  all  his  energies 
for  the  victory  he  never  allowed  himself  to  despair 
of  ultimately  winning. 

At  work  he  was  a  deadly  serious  man,  driven  by 
an  ambition  almost  immeasurable.  He  confessed 
to  no  one,  but  at  times  he  felt  possessed  of  a  very 
demon  of  jealousy  of  all  the  great  painters  who  had 
preceded  him.  He  had  at  times  immense  belief  in 
himself;  at  others  he  blushed  for  his  hopes,  and 
poured  contempt  on  his  own  aspirations.  Yet  from 
his  blackest  despair  he  would  start  up,  the  sense  of 
power  irresistible  flooding  through  him,  as  if  a 
giant  mastery  dwelt  within  him,  a  divinity  that, 
born  within  him  as  in  a  prison,  sought  to  tear  an 
exit  through  his  living  self  into  space,  air,  light, 
freedom  — 

He  wrestled  then  as  with  angels.  In  this  state 
he  worked  at  a  frightful  and  exhausting  pace,  his 
brain  aglow,  a  frenzy  of  enthusiasm  not  far  from 
madness  possessing  him,  and  chasing  him  hither 
and  thither.  Something  cried  to  him  from  within 
his  brain  to  give  it  shape,  expression,  and  obedient 
to  the  call  he  strove  till  physical  strength  failed 
him,  and  he  sat  once  more  among  the  failures  of 
his  efforts  and  his  hopes. 

For  this  inspiration  never  materialized  in  one 
single  piece  of  finished  work  on  which  he  could  look 


2  2  The  Caravan  Man 

with  satisfaction.  Under  its  influence  he  flew  to 
heights  he  could  not  sustain.  Packed  away  in  cor 
ners,  despised,  mere  matter  for  exasperated  reminis 
cence  when  he  chanced  upon  them,  were  canvases 
he  had  started  in  such  moods,  all  unfinished,  some 
mere  beginnings,  glowing  promises  of  achievement 
unfulfilled,  or  fine  accomplishment,  never  more 
than  partial,  and  only  ruined  where  evident  painful 
effort  had  been  made  to  struggle  through  to  the 
desired  end. 

The  whole  of  the  studio  wall-space  was  white 
washed.  A  rug  or  two  of  taking  design  or  colour 
was  hung  here  and  there.  But  the  most  noticeable 
thing  was  a  painting  in  oils  on  the  bare  wall,  a 
thing  of  no  more  than  an  hour  or  so  in  execution, 
deft  in  handling,  free,  powerful,  convincing. 

It  showed  the  head  of  a  girl,  a  child  not  more 
than  twelve,  or  at  the  most  fourteen,  with  a  face 
infinitely  tender,  yet  so  brave,  and  with  a  look  of 
such  loyalty  in  the  eyes  that  it  instantly  won  you. 
These  eyes  smiled,  trustingly  and  freely,  through 
long  brown  trails  of  tumbled  hair,  that  came  veil 
ing  down  over  peach-like  cheeks.  Some  happy 
accident  in  the  handling  of  that  swift  sketch  had 
lent  to  the  child's  face  just  that  wondrous  texture 
that  belongs  to  childhood  alone,  though  by  rare 
chance  a  trace  of  it  may  linger  to  make  some 
woman  proud  in  the  first  few  years  of  her  maturity. 

In  the  shadow  of  a  fold  of  a  hanging  rug  the 


The  Caravan  Man  2  3 

effect  was  strangely  real.  Not  merely  at  the  first 
glance  there  appeared  a  living  face,  living  eyes,  a 
living  presence  half  hidden  there,  even  when  the 
room  grew  familiar  there  seemed  to  emanate  from 
the  sketch  on  the  wall  a  sense  of  friendly  and 
captivating  youth,  unobtrusive  yet  dominating, 
informing  the  bleakness  of  the  studio  with  the 
spirit  of  comradeship  and  loyalty. 

Round  the  fireplace  under  the  sleeping  gallery 
things  domestic  had  inevitably  grouped  them 
selves.  There  were  two  easy-chairs  besides  several 
smaller,  a  couch,  a  heap  of  cushions,  a  bookcase,  a 
table  littered  with  an  untidy  pile  of  charcoal 
studies  of  female  figures,  one  now  and  then  draped, 
but  mostly  nude.  Here  were  "details"  —  legs, 
arms,  hands,  ears,  breasts,  sometimes  a  mere  happy 
line  or  so,  caught  flying,  sometimes  a  monumental 
piece  of  study,  followed  into  every  detail  of  shape 
and  tone.  A  thick  rug  lay  on  the  floor  before  the 
massive  steel  fender.  An  old  'cello  stood  in  a  cor 
ner,  with  the  bridge  down.  Some  prints,  a  special 
study  or  two,  an  unframed  canvas  with  a  finely 
slashed-in  head  of  a  woman,  were  fastened  to  the 
wall.  In  one  corner  was  a  wardrobe  with  the  door 
open.  This  was  crammed  with  female  dresses  of  all 
kinds,  shabby  enough  most  of  them,  but  all  lovely 
in  colour,  some  of  them  brilliant,  and  their  designs 
fantastic  and  bizarre. 

A  small  fire  burnt  in  the  large  grate.  Aside  from 


24  The  Caravan  Man 

the  fire  stood  a  table  on  which  a  large  napkin  was 
spread  as  tablecloth.  This  was  set  for  afternoon 
tea,  with  pretty  if  cheap-looking  china,  and  a  few 
flowers.  Looking  from  the  daintiness,  cleanliness, 
and  airy  freshness  of  this  table  you  noted  more 
clearly  the  general  aspect  of  neglect  and  disorder 
in  the  rest  of  the  room.  It  spoke,  not  perhaps  of 
actual  poverty,  but  of  a  disregard  of  anything 
above  the  merest  practical  level  of  method  and 
arrangement.  The  tea-table  was  plainly  an  effort 
on  the  part  of  a  man  who  in  his  everyday  life  would 
have  laughed  at  the  notion  of  doing  such  a  thing 
for  his  own  edification.  As  such  she  noted  it  when 
she  came. 

Bamfield  had  been  pacing  his  studio,  smoking, 
pausing  at  times  to  stare  at  the  canvas  on  his  easel, 
where  a  life-sized  nude  figure  of  a  girl  stood  out 
brilliantly  under  the  strong  side-light  from  the  tall 
north  window.  Once  or  twice  he  picked  up  palette 
and  brush  and  approached  the  canvas  with  the 
evident  intention  of  working  at  the  hands.  Over 
both  these  there  was  a  daub  of  green  paint,  stabbed 
onto  them  in  a  fit  of  rage  and  despair  the  morning 
before,  when  disgust  had  overwhelmed  him.  But 
he  did  not  touch  them  even  now.  He  hovered  over 
them,  brush  in  hand,  undecided. 

On  the  outer  door  came  a  rat-tat.  It  was  she, 
violet  eyes  agleam,  face  smiling,  teeth  flashing. 
Dressed  in  a  coat  and  skirt  of  light  brown,  with  a 


The  Caravan  Man  2  5 

white  blouse  cut  well  open  at  the  neck,  she  brought 
in  all  the  blitheness  of  the  brave  February  day. 
She  held  out  her  hand.  "Well,"  she  cried  gaily, 
"you  never  expected  me?" 

"I  intended  shooting  myself  at  four  o'clock 
sharp,  if  you  had  n't  come,"  he  answered,  and 
drew  her  in. 

"Oh,  what  a  room!  How  large!"  she  exclaimed, 
standing  in  the  middle  of  the  studio,  and  looking 
about  with  frank  interest.  "So  this  is  the  place 
where  you  play,  and  try  to  persuade  me  it's  work 
ing." 

"Take  off  your  hat,  won't  you?" 

"Oh,  but  wait  a  bit,  John;  wait  a  bit.  I  don't 
know.  I  feel  so  tremendously  in  John's  power,  and 
somehow  I  feel  that  my  hat  on  makes  me  braver. 
No,  I  won't  take  it  off  just  yet.  Anyhow,  you 
know,  I  only  just  came  for  one  little  cup  of  tea. 
Well"  —  she  looked  critically  at  the  fireplace, 
the  tea-table,  the  gallery —  "it's  all  right,  I  sup 
pose.  Why  don't  you  get  it  cleaned  ? " 

"Cleaned!"  said  Bamfield,  aghast.  "Why,  you 
don't  mean  to  say  it's  dirty?" 

"Dirty!"  she  laughed.  "There's  work  here  for 
two  women  for  a  week.  How  do  you  manage  ? " 

"A  woman  comes  in  on  Saturdays  and  does  the 
place  out,  and  generally  she's  here  for  an  hour  or 
two  some  of  the  other  days." 

She  laughed  again,  with  that  evident  pleasure 


2  6  The  Caravan  Man 

even  the  most  good-natured  of  women  feels  in  the 
revelation  of  a  man's  blindness  in  the  matter  of 
domestic  management.  "She's  a  gem,  whoever 
she  is." 

"Have  n't  you  ever  been  in  a  studio  before?" 

"Never.  I  imagined  something  quite  different." 

"How?" 

"I  don't  know.  It  comes  rather  as  a  shock.  It's 
so  very  large,  and  the  walls  —  why  should  they  be 
whitewashed?  Oh!"  she  broke  off,  "who's  this?" 
She  had  seen  the  painting  on  the  wall,  and  went 
close  up  to  look  at  it.  "What  a  pretty  girl?  Some 
lady-love  of  yours?" 

"  She's  my  sweetheart,  if  that's  what  you  mean." 

"Is  n't  she  rather  young?  —  Why,  she  can't  be 
more  than  twelve  or  so." 

"I  would  n't  have  her  for  my  sweetheart  if  she 
was  any  older.  I  don't  know  who  she  is.  I  found 
her  painted  on  the  wall  when  I  came  here;  some 
previous  tenant.  She's  a  sort  of  presiding  divinity, 
you  know." 

She  was  quite  interested.  "How  pretty.  I  mean, 
the  whole  idea.  Why  do  you  call  her  your  sweet 
heart?" 

"Oh,  I  liked  her.  It's  a  charming  face.  A  good 
bit  of  work,  too,  not  quite  sound  in  the  drawing, 
but  clever." 

"And  how  long  have  you  been  here?" 

"Nearly  six  years." 


The  Caravan  Man  27 

"Let's  see  —  then  she'd  be  something  between 
eighteen  and  twenty.  Why  don't  you  find  out  who 
she  is,  and  where  she  is?" 

"For  one  thing,  she  might  be  forty,  or  sixty,  for 
all  we  know.  I  don't  know  how  long  the  thing  had 
been  painted  before  I  came.  But  what  am  I  to 
find  her  for?" 

"If  she's  still  young  and  beautiful  —  and  I'm 
sure  she  is  —  would  n't  it  be  romantic?" 

"  I  dare  say.  It  did  n't  occur  to  me  to  try  and 
find  her.  She's  a  very  nice  little  sweetheart  as  she 
is,  much  nicer,  I  expect,  than  she'd  be  in  the  flesh. 
I  feel  a  kind  of  ownership  sometimes,  cousinship, 
at  any  rate." 

"Well,  all  right.  Now,  where  are  the  hands?" 
She  went  across  to  the  picture  on  the  easel.  "Oh, 
this  —  is  this  it?  Why"  —  she  stooped  to  examine 
the  work  —  "have  you  been  working  at  all?  You 
have  n't." 

"No,"  he  said.  "I  meant  to,  but  I  remembered 
your  hands,  and  your  promise." 

"I  did  n't." 

"But  you  will,  won't  you?" 

"I  don't  know  ...  I  like  this  studio.  I  should 
think  you  could  make  things  very  jolly  here.  Do 
you  sleep  here?" 

"Up  there  in  the  gallery." 

"May  I  see?" 

He  laughed  and  nodded.  She  went  up  the  stairs 


2  8  The  Caravan  Man 

with  eager,  unabashed  curiosity,  and  looked  at  his 
simple  couch  and  his  battered  bath  and  the  untidy 
pile  of  books  there.  She  made  a  face. 

"Well,  of  course,  it  is  n't  a  lady's  bedroom," 
said  Bamfield  apologetically. 

"I  should  hope  not,"  she  answered,  and  went 
down. 

She  went  over  to  the  tea-table.  "A  fire  —  but 
that's  nice,  too." 

"I  wondered  if  you'd  find  it  too  hot;  but  even 
on  a  hot  day,  I  like  to  keep  a  fire  going,  just  for 
company." 

"You  poor  thing,"  she  said  suddenly.  "Why- 
ever  don't  you  get  married?" 

"Puh!"  said  Bamfield.  "What  an  idea!" 

"Why  don't  you?" 

"I'm  an  artist;  that's  why." 

"I  see.  Devoted  to  Art,  eh?" 

"Yes." 

"No  room  for  a  smaller  passion?" 

"Precisely." 

"We'll  see  about  you,  before  I've  done  with 
you,"  she  said,  pitying  and  scorning. 

"Bite  granite,  viper,"  said  Bamfield. 

She  sat  down  in  one  of  the  easy-chairs.  "There's 
one  thing  about  a  man's  room  I  like,"  she  said;  "he 
generally  gets  nice  comfortable  chairs.  Now  this 
is  luxurious.  And  new  too.  Have  you  only  just 
bought  them?" 


The  Caravan  Man  2  9 

"This  week." 

"Not  —  not  for  my  visit?" 

"No,"  he  answered.  "But  I  told  you,  I  believe 
—  or  did  n't  I  ?  —  that  I  'd  had  luck  lately.  I  'd 
long  wanted  a  decent  chair,  but  could  never  afford 
it,  and  the  first  thing  I  did  was  to  buy  these,  only 
last  week.  Glad  you  like  them." 

He  put  the  kettle  on  the  fire.  "You'll  take  your 
hat  off  now  ? " 

She  unpinned  it  and  tossed  it  on  the  couch,  then 
slipped  off  her  gloves,  glanced  at  her  hands  and  at 
him. 

"Yes,"  he  said;  "let  me  look."  He  took  them 
in  his,  scrutinizing  them  closely,  turning  them 
over  to  look  at  the  palms.  "Good,  perfect.  Nails, 
fingers  —  and  what  a  lovely  droop  at  the  wrist. 
Firm-fleshed,  too,  not  pappy." 

"You  ought  to  be  a  Circassian  brigand,  selling 
girl-captives  in  some  Turkish  slave-market." 

"  I  wish  I  had  the  selling  of  you.  What  a  cata 
logue  I  'd  draw  up ! " 

"For  instance — ?" 

"Dare  n't  tell  you." 

"What  should  I  fetch?" 

"Anything  up  to  a  hundred  thousand  pias 
tres." 

"That's  an  awful  lot,  is  n't  it?" 

"I  don't  really  know.  It  sounds  a  lot,  that's 
why  I  said  it.  But  I  should  n't  sell  you  at  all.  I 


3<D  The  Caravan  Man 

should  arrange  with  a  friendly  dealer  to  buy  you 
in,  for  myself." 

She  laughed.  "What  fun!  Could  you  afford  me? 
Did  n't  you  say  you  were  poor?" 

He  burst  out  laughing.  "No,  I  'm  not.  Not  now. 
Do  I  disappoint  you?" 

"No,  but  I  don't  seem  to  realize  you.  Somehow 
in  spite  of  your  luxurious  chairs,  I  thought  you 
must  be  very  poor.  You  seem  to  be  the  sort  of 
man  that  would  go  well  with  poverty." 

"You're  very  complimentary.  But  when  I  say 
I  'm  not  poor,  I  only  mean  that  I  don't  have  to  sit 
up  sewing  holes  in  my  socks  by  the  light  of  a  tallow 
candle,  and  things  like  that." 

The  kettle  boiled.  He  made  the  tea.  She  rose 
from  her  chair.  "I'm  to  pour  out?"  she  asked. 

"Well,  it  would  make  it  delightful  if  you  would." 

"Don't  you  think  it  would  be  delightful  for  me 
to  be  waited  on?" 

"Well,  let  me.  Yes"  —  to  her  shake  of  the  head. 
"Sit  down  again." 

She  slipped  off  her  jacket  and  threw  it  on  the 
couch  with  her  hat.  "I  was  only  joking." 

But  he  insisted,  and  she  allowed  him  to  persuade 
her  into  the  capacious  chair  again.  He  pulled  the 
table  near  her,  brought  his  own  chair  up  to  it,  and 
poured  out  tea.  She  caught  his  eye,  and  laughed. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  know  —  it's  such  fun;  and  the  idea  of 


The  Caravan  Man  3 1 

your  making  tea  and  waiting  on  me  like  this — it's 
such  a  joke." 

"  I  suppose  you  think  all  one's  life  in  a  studio  is 
a  bit  of  a  joke,  don't  you  ? " 

"Well,  frankly,  is  n't  it?  Don't  you  feel  yourself 
that  it's  a  bit  of  —  it's  —  I  don't  know  quite  what 
to  call  it." 

"You  mean,  a  bit  of  a  pose,  something  not  quite 
serious:  this  queer  room,  and  the  little  makeshift 
bedroom,  and  doing  one's  own  cooking,  and  paint 
ing  in  fits  and  starts — " 

"And  entertaining  people  like  me." 

"Well,  it  is  n't  a  pose.  Remember  our  talk  of 
yesterday.  It's  serious." 

"Ah,  now  he's  commencing!  This  is  the  prophet 
of  the  desert  I  have  learnt  to  know  and  lo —  I 
mean,  reverence." 

"Oh,  I  won't  be  sermony  again.  If  it  will  please 
you,  I  '11  admit  this  life  is  fun.  You  see,  it's  free  . . . 
Do  you  like  this  cake?" 

"Yes.  I  tell  you  what.  I  should  like  a  piece  of 
toast." 

"All  right."  He  jumped  up.  "I've  got  some 
bread  in  the  place,  or,  if  you  like,  here's  a  roll  or 
two.  Shall  we  split  them?" 

"Have  you  a  toasting-fork?" 

He  dived  into  the  kitchen,  came  back  with  a 
long  fork,  cut  some  slices,  and  prepared  to  toast. 

"Let  me!"  she  cried. 


3  2  The  Caravan  Man 

"No;  you'll  spoil  your  skin." 

"Pooh!  I'm  not  so  fragile  as  all  that.  Give  me 
the  fork." 

She  knelt  at  the  fire,  shielding  her  face  a  little 
with  her  free  hand.  Bamfield  knelt  on  the  fender 
near  her,  and  watched  the  marvel  of  the  play  of  the 
contending  lights  on  her,  the  daylight  from  the 
roof-light  streaming  down  her  shoulders  and  back, 
and  the  warm  red  from  the  fire  playing  over  her 
face,  taking  the  rose  out  of  it,  but  giving  it  a  ten 
derness  and  richness  of  colour  that  made  her  more 
fascinating  than  ever. 

The  toast  made,  she  ate  it  with  great  enjoy 
ment. 

"May  I  make  some  notes?"  Bamfield  asked 
her.  She  nodded,  and  he  got  some  paper  and  char 
coal  and,  arranging  her  hands  as  in  the  pose  of  his 
picture,  he  occupied  some  ten  minutes  in  work. 
"  I  'm  just  getting  the  drawing,"  he  told  her. 

She  wanted  to  see  what  he  had  done,  and  was 
quite  pleased  to  see  her  own  hands  reproduced  on 
the  paper.  "  I  think  you  're  clever,"  she  said. 

"  I  am,"  he  told  her. 

"Conceit!" 

"Any  amount —  I  could  n't  go  on  fighting  if  I 
had  n't  swelled  head." 

After  that  talk  died  down.  She  sat  quite  con 
tentedly  looking  at  the  fire.  Bamfield  watched  her. 

Now,  what  was  in  the  man's  mind?  A  moody, 


The  Caravan  Man  3  3 

almost  a  disappointed  man,  carried  along  in  life 
not  so  much  now  by  the  buoyancy  of  eager  youth 
as  the  grim,  dour  determination  of  an  obstinate 
and  combative  man,  passing  long  periods  in  brood 
ing  and  depression,  he  was  now  at  the  very  summit 
of  a  compensating  expansion  of  spirit.  He  had 
been  doing  what  was  a  rare  and  hitherto  dangerous 
thing  for  him  to  venture  on,  spending  money  and 
holiday-making.  At  a  loose  end,  idle,  and  inclined 
to  further  idleness  for  the  time,  he  had  met  this 
woman.  She  was  beautiful  in  face,  figure,  speech, 
manner,  dress.  She  had  accepted  his  acquaintance, 
and  fallen  into  talk  which  bordered  on  the  intimate 
in  the  most  natural  way  in  the  world.  Five  minutes 
after  he  had  spoken  to  her,  a  complete  stranger, 
in  the  public  street,  she  had  sat  at  a  meal  with 
him.  Twenty-four  hours  later  she  was  sitting  alone 
with  him  in  his  studio,  hat,  coat,  gloves  laid  aside; 
friendly,  receptive  of  his  advances,  so  far.  What 
wonder  if,  harking  back  along  the  line  of  reminis 
cence  and  running  over  it  again,  from  their  first 
chance  encounter  to  their  present  situation,  his 
thoughts  travelled  onwards  along  an  easy  and 
alluring  road  ?  At  precisely  that  moment  she  looked 
up  at  him.  For  a  second  they  looked  into  each 
other's  eyes.  He  had  the  sensation  of  being  read. 
Count  it  for  grace  in  him  that  he  blenched. 

"Let's  talk,"  she  said. 

"What  about?" 


34  The  Caravan  Man 

"There's  lots  of  things  I  want  to  talk  to  you 
about.  But,  in  the  first  place,  no  love-making." 
She  said  it  as  simply,  as  unaffectedly,  as  if  she  had 
said,  "No  milk  in  my  tea,  please." 

Bamfield  was  rather  taken  aback  by  her  direct 
ness,  and  possibly  not  quite  sure  of  her  genuine 
ness.  Still,  the  immense  candour  of  her  gaze  seemed 
convincing. 

"Don't  say  that,  lady,"  he  answered,  in  mock 
dismay. 

"I  do  say  it.  I  mean  it.  You  won't  think  I'm 
so  silly  and  —  common,  as  to  challenge  the  very 
thing  I'm  warning  you  from,  but  I  want  you  to 
understand  that.  No  kissing.  I  don't  want  to. 
I  have  to  come  to  this  sort  of  understanding  with 
such  a  lot  of  men,  often  men  I  like,  and  it  saves 
trouble  and  disappointment  if  we  get  that  point 
clear  at  the  earliest  opportunity." 

"Too  late,  in  my  case,"  said  Bamfield.  "Why 
were  n't  you  more  explicit  in  the  first  place  ?  I  'm  a 
wallowing  sea  of  disappointment." 

"That's  right.  I  like  you  to  be  disappointed." 

"Do  you?"  She  was  a  bewildering  person. 

"Of  course.  What  should  I  think  of  you  if  you  'd 
said,  'It  does  n't  matter,'  or,  'Nothing  was  further 
from  my  intention,  I  assure  you?" 

Bamfield  came  up  to  the  proper  level  of  serious 
levity  at  once.  "Then  let  me  say  that  this  is  the 
bitterest  moment  of  my  life." 


The  Caravan  Man  3  5 

"Good,"  she  said  complacently.  —  "Well,  now 
we  can  talk  quite  openly.  I  know  I  puzzle  you,  but 
really  I'm  not  difficult.  I  like  men,  always  have, 
and  they  like  me;  but  I  did  n't  want  to  get  married. 
I  quite  understood,  and  —  it  did  n't  appeal  to  me. 
Then  I  met  the  man  I  did  marry.  He's  sixty-two." 

"Good  Lord!"  said  Bamfield.  "And  to  think—" 

"You  all  say  the  same.  'To  think  of  so  much 
beauty  wasting  its  sweetness,  et  cetera.'  Be  sensi 
ble.  I  wanted  the  freedom  of  a  married  woman, 
and  I  did  not  want  marriage.  Well,  I  was  n't  so 
much  married  as  collected.  My  husband  is  one  of 
the  greatest  collectors  of  the  day." 

"Does  he  collect  pictures?"  asked  Bamfield. 

"Yes." 

"Modern?" 

"Always." 

"God  bless  and  keep  him,"  said  Bamfield  fer 
vently. 

"And  modern  furniture,  and  modern  china,  and 
modern  jewel-work,  and  craft-work  of  every  kind. 
He  has  the  most  wonderful  taste  and  knowledge. 
And  he  saw  me,  a  picture,  a  jewel,  he  called  me  — 
and  perfectly  modern  — " 

"Absolutely  that"  agreed  Bamfield. 

"  —  And  he  collected  me.  And  we  are  perfectly 
happy.  Understand?" 

"I  believe  I  do.  It's  —  annoying  in  a  way,  and 
yet  —  let  me  congratulate  you." 


3  6  The  Caravan  Man 

"Thank  you.  Now,  first  I  want  you  to  tell  me, 
why  are  n't  you  married  ?  Wait  a  bit.  How  old 
are  you?" 

"I'm  thirty-three." 

"Then,  why  have  n't  you  got  married?  Who  do 
you  think  you  are,  to  stick  here  all  alone  when 
there  are  lots  of  nice  girls  entitled  to  a  husband  — " 

**  A  nice  girl  would  be  entitled  to  a  nice  husband." 

"Well,  you  would  n't  be  half  bad." 

"I  should,"  said  Bamfield.  "I  should  be  the 
very  worst  sort  of  husband  that  ever  was." 

"My  dear  man,  as  you  are,  no  doubt  you  would 
be  a  poor  specimen —  I  don't  mean  you'd  beat 
her  or  come  home  drunk,  but  a  man  who's  lived 
this  frightful,  unnatural  life  for —  How  long  did 
you  say  you  have  been  here?" 

"Six  years." 

"All  alone?" 

"Practically." 

"Practically  —  h'm!"  She  considered  him.  "I 
don't  know  whether  I  like  you  so  much,  after  all." 

"How  much  did  you  think  you  liked  me?" 

"That  much."  She  held  her  hands  a  little  way 
apart. 

"That's  not  much." 

"  It's  a  lot  with  me.  Oh,  well,  perhaps  after  all  — 
Anyhow,  never  mind;  you  can't  be  helped.  And, 
besides,  I  was  going  to  say,  a  nice,  sensible  girl 
would  soon  pull  you  into  shape." 


The  Caravan  Man  3  7 

Bamfield  shuddered.  "That's  partly  it,"  he 
said.  "One  sees  these  nice  girls,  and  perhaps  one 
knows  their  husbands,  and  one  can't  help  witness 
ing  the  spectacle  of  pulling  into  shape.  It  frightens 


a  man." 


She  laughed.  It  was  a  proper  woman's  laugh  at 
a  man's  acknowledgment  of  her  sex's  powers. 

"Now,  about  money —  You  don't  claim  to  be 
rich,  but  you  are  n't  quite  poor.  What  are  you  — 
just  precisely?" 

Bamfield  stretched  himself  luxuriously  in  the 
chair.  "You'll  set  me  going  on  a  subject  I  can 
spout  about  for  hours  —  my  luck,  and  the  way 
it's  turned  lately." 

"Well,  spout  away.  I  like  to  hear  of  luck." 

"You  believe  in  it?" 

"I  believe  in  luck,  and  affinities,  and  table- 
turning,  and  horoscopes,  and  destiny,  and  every 
thing  of  that  sort." 

"Well,  I '11  tell  you.  I've  had  shocking  luck  ever 
since  I  set  out  to  get  my  living  and  make  what 
name  I  could,  by  painting.  I've  been  poor,  hor 
ribly  poor,  and  I  have  n't  made  the  least  little  bit 
of  a  name  till  lately.  You  know,  I  Ve  been  selling 
all  my  pictures  through  one  man,  a  dealer  named 
Iffelstein,  a  Dutchman." 

"That's  bad  business,  is  n't  it?" 

"  I  dare  say,  but  I  'm  not  businesslike,  and,  be 
sides,  we  arrived  at  an  understanding  four  years 


38  The  Caravan  Man 

ago.  I  could  n't  sell  a  thing  —  I  'm  not  a  good  sales 
man;  I  don't  understand,  or  at  any  rate,  I  don't 
want  to  trouble  with  the  money  side." 

"But  you  should." 

"I  can't.  I  just  want  the  money,  and  I  can't 
bear,  I  loathe,  having  to  haggle  with  any  one. 
Well,  when  I  was  desperate,  Iffelstein  looked  me 
up  and  bought  my  stuff.  It  was  a  poor  price,  but 
you  don't  know  what  a  godsend  it  was.  And  from 
that  time  it's  been  understood  that  I  let  him  have 
all  I  paint.  It  suits  me  in  a  way,  because  he  pays 
on  the  nail,  but — " 

"He  screws  you  down,  I  believe." 

"  Well,  he  does  n't  pay  much.  In  fact,  I  get  wild 
sometimes  to  think  how  little  I  get,  but  anyhow 
I've  lived,  and  I've  gone  on  painting,  which  was 
what  I  meant  to  do." 

"Do  you  exhibit?" 

"  I  used  to,  but  they  won't  have  me  now." 

"Why  not?  Not  good  enough?" 

"Too  good."  She  laughed.  "I  mean  it.  They're 
afraid  of  me  and  my  work.  They  can't  understand 
it.  I  've  my  own  theories  about  colour  and  light, 
and  what  form  implies,  and  just  how  far  one  may 
imitate,  and  what's  unpaintable." 

"Well;  goon." 

"Well,  you  understand  that  I  got  restless  about 
my  earnings,  and  then  the  brother  of  a  friend  of 
mine  who  was  over  from  America  offered  to  take  a 


The  Caravan  Man  3  9 

picture  of  mine  out  to  the  States  and  see  if  he  could 
sell  it  for  me  there.  So  I  let  him  have  one,  and  I 
heard  nothing  of  it  for  three  months,  and  then  a 
little  while  ago  I  got  a  letter  from  some  New  York 
dealers,  telling  me  he  had  placed  the  picture  with 
them,  and  they  had  an  offer  of  a  hundred  pounds 
for  it,  and  would  I  tell  them  if  I  wished  them  to 
accept.  And  if  I  considered  the  price  suitable,  they 
could  undertake  to  dispose  of  more  at  the  same 
price." 

"And  is  that  a  good  price —  a  hundred  pounds  ? " 

"Good! — I  should  think  it  was.  Five  or  six 
times  what  I  get  from  Iffelstein.  I've  only  twice 
had  as  much  as  twenty  pounds  for  a  picture  from 
him." 

"I  did  n't  know.  Did  you  write?" 

"I  cabled!  And  I  got  a  wire  back,  to  say  the 
sale  was  concluded  and  cheque  in  the  post." 

"Have  you  got  it?" 

"No;  that  was  only  a  week  or  so  ago,  but  it  will 
be  here.  There  now!  that's  my  luck." 

"I  think  I  should  want  to  see  the  money  before 
I  was  quite  sure." 

"  I  'm  sure.   I  knew  it  would  come,  some  day." 

"Well,  all  right.  I  congratulate  you.  Now  you'd 
better  get  married." 

Bamfield  laughed.  "On  the  strength  of  selling 
a  picture?  You're  keen  on  seeing  me  tied  up." 

"lam.  I  do  really  like  you.  You 're  quite  a  nice 


40  The  Caravan  Man 

boy,  but  you  need  marrying  badly.  Who  is  there 
you  know  that  would  do?" 

"Stop  this,"  said  Bamfield  sternly.  "You're 
dangerous.  So  long  as  you  were  joking — " 

"But  I'm  not." 

"But  you  were." 

"No,  I  was  n't.  I  meant  it.  You've  got  to  get 
married.  I  get  all  my  men-friends  married.  They 
make  love  to  me,  and  I  tell  them  it's  impossible, 
but  I  know  some  one  much  nicer  than  I  am  — " 

"You  don't." 

"Of  course  I  don't.  But  I  tell  them  so,  and  I 
introduce  them  to  some  one  nice  enough,  and  — 
there  you  are." 

"Well,  you  let  me  alone.  I  won't  have  it.  Be 
sides,  if  you  start  introducing  nice  girls  to  me  —  I 
might  be  dangerous." 

She  considered  him.  "I  think  you're  all  right." 

"I'm  all  right  if  I  can  get  on  with  my  work.  I 
don't  want  to  marry  —  I  don't  really  want  to  have 
anything  to  do  with  any  of  you  — " 

"That's  why  you  took  me  to  breakfast  five 
minutes  after  you  had  met  me  casually,  and  asked 
me  here?" 

"You're  different." 

She  laughed.   "Oh,  yes,  I  know.  We  all  are." 

"But  you  are.  Since  you  told  me  'No  love- 
making,'  I  have  n't  wanted  to  make  love  to  you  in 
the  least." 


The  Caravan  Man  4 1 

"Have  n't  you?  —  Shall  I  make  you?" 

"If  you  want  to  —  but  you'll  spoil  it." 

She  clapped  her  hands,  flushing  with  pleasure. 
"Splendid.  That's  just  what  I  wanted  you  to 
understand.  You  mean  that  you  just  want  to  be 
friends?" 

"I  mean,"  said  Bamfield,  "that  you  are  the 
most  delightful  woman  I've  ever  met,  that  I'm 
more  in  love  with  you  than  I've  ever  been  with 
anybody  in  my  life,  and  that  I'm  quite  prepared 
to  tell  you  so  in  front  of  your  husband." 

"That's  right.  Oh,  how  quick  you  have  been. 
Shall  I  tell  you  —  that's  what  they  all  do.  And 
he  laughs,  and  I  like  it."  She  jumped  up  suddenly. 
"It's  half-past  five,  and  I  must  go." 

"Sure?" 

"Sure." 

"You'll  come  again?" 

"Yes,  I  will,  I  promise." 

"When?" 

"I  don't  know.  When  next  I  'm  in  town,  perhaps 
—  that  might  be  a  month  or  two  yet." 

He  helped  her  on  with  her  light  coat,  and  looked 
about  for  his  own  hat. 

She  stopped  him.  "I  don't  want  you  to  come.  I 
told  the  taxi-man  to  come  back  at  half-past  five. 
Just  to  the  road  with  me,  if  you  like." 

As  she  went  to  the  door,  she  stopped  at  the 
picture  on  the  wall.  The  two  beautiful  faces, 


42  The  Caravan  Man 

both  alive,  seemed  to  peer  closely  into  each  other's 
eyes.  She  turned  to  Bamfield. 

"She'd  do." 

Bamfield  looked  enquiry.  "  She  —  do  ?  —  " 

"She'd  be  the  girl  for  you.  Why  don't  you 
marry  her?" 

"Good  Heavens!"  He  burst  out  laughing.  "You 
don't  waste  time." 

"There's  no  time  to  waste.  Thirty-three!  — 
My  goodness! . .  .  Well?" 

"In  the  first  place,  I'm  not  going  to  get  mar 
ried." 

"Quite  final?" 

"Quite." 

"Married  to  Art,  eh?" 

"Yes." 

"Rubbish!" 

His  face  darkened.  He  turned  stiffly  away. 
"Pray  don't  let  us  discuss  it  further." 

She  openly  jeered.  "Don't  show  me  your  high- 
and-mighty  airs.  I  believe  the  long  and  short  of  it 
is  you  're  a  coward  or  mean  —  or  you  're  married 
already,  and  your  poor  darling  of  a  wife  has  been 
driven  away  from  you  by  your  persistent  ill-usage, 
or—" 

"Oh,  stop  it!"  He  had  to  laugh.  "Please  re 
member  I  don't  know  who  she  is." 

"Then  find  out." 

"And  I  don't  know  how  old  she'd  be." 


The  Caravan  Man  43 

"The  right  age." 

"And  I  don't  know  if  she'd  have  me." 

"I  dare  say  she  wouldn't,  at  first,  but  you'd 
persuade  her  —  poor  little  girl!" 

"And  I  dare  say  she's  lost  her  looks.  You  don't 
think  I  could  marry  a  plain  girl?" 

"No,"  —  after  considering  him.  "But,  lost  her 
looks! —  Look  at  those  eyes,  dense;  they  won't 
change." 

He  looked  closely  at  the  eyes  of  the  picture.  The 
face  still  smiled  at  him,  frankly,  friendly,  childish. 
"  She  has  lovely  eyes,"  he  murmured. 

"And  she's  lovely  in  herself.  Yes,  that's  a  true 
portrait,  one  can  tell ;  and  a  girl  with  eyes  like  that 
has  a  heart  that's  —  that's  just  the  right  sort  of 
heart  for  a  man  like  you." 

"And  what  sort  of  a  man  am  I?" 

She  wrinkled  her  nose  at  him.  "I  shan't  think 
you  any  sort  of  a  man  unless  you  marry  her." 

"But,  be  reasonable."  He  felt  nervous.  This 
extraordinary  woman  seemed  to  be  compelling  him 
in  a  most  outrageous  fashion.  If  he  did  n't  look 
out —  He  made  halting  excuses.  "I  don't  know 
where  she  is." 

"Go  and  look  for  her.  I  told  you  I  believe  in 
destiny,  and  you  believe  in  luck;  so  there  you  are." 

"But  suppose,  when  I  find  her,  she's  already 
married?" 

"Then  run  away  with  her.  But  she  is  n't." 


44  The  Caravan  Man 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"Because  I  do.  Be  quick  and  find  her.  She's 
waiting  for  you." 

It  was  impossible  to  argue  with  such  a  creature. 
He  laughed;  so  did  she.  He  held  the  door  open; 
she  passed  out  and  up  the  lane,  Bamfield,  hatless, 
accompanying.  A  taxi  on  the  other  side  of  the 
street  immediately  drew  over,  and  he  opened  the 
door.  She  stepped  in. 

He  leant  in.  "Where  to?" 

"Tell  him,  King's  Road,  Chelsea." 

"And  are  n't  you  going  to  tell  me  your  name?" 

She  pondered.  "Next  time,  perhaps.  It  depends 
on  whether  you  do  what  I  want." 

"I  shan't,"  he  said. 

"You  will,"  she  returned  emphatically.  "They 
always  do." 

He  shut  the  door  with  something  like  a  little 
chill  of  apprehension  running  down  his  spine. 


CHAPTER  III 

WELL,  now,  there  had  been  quite  an  agreeable 
two  hours  or  so,  and  the  pleasure  just  ter 
minated  still  left  its  traces  on  Bamfield's  face  as, 
hands  in  pockets,  he  strolled  back  down  the  lane 
to  his  studio.  Halfway  down  he  met  the  postman 
returning.  He  had  delivered  a  letter  while  Bam- 
field  was  taking  leave  of  his  visitor.  Bamfield 
strolled  on,  opened  his  door  and  picked  the  letter 
up  from  the  mat.  Aha!  —  from  New  York.  He 
opened  it ... 

Twenty  seconds  later  he  was  flying  in  a  frantic 
hurry  about  his  studio,  looking  for  the  previous 
letter.  He  hunted  through  pockets,  on  shelves, 
inside  book-covers,  behind  canvases,  every  second 
more  exasperated,  more  anxious,  and,  as  he  moved, 
spreading  confusion  where  confusion  already  was. 
"Dollars!"  he  muttered,  incredulous,  indignant, 
apprehensive.  "Dollars! —  But  it  said  —  I'm 
sure  —  I  remember  distinctly — "  Ha,  here  it  was. 
He  snatched  it  up,  drew  the  letter  from  its  envel 
ope,  stared  .  .  . 

"So  it  is  — dollars!" 

He  sat  down  in  the  armchair  she  had  just  left, 
holding  the  two  letters,  and  a  faint  sense  of  sick 
ness  came  over  him. 


46  The  Caravan  Man 

Reader,  has  pity  still  a  lodging  in  your  bosom? 
Let  me  evoke  it  on  behalf  of  our  young  friend 
Bamfield. 

He  had  not  sold  a  picture  in  New  York  for  one 
hundred  pounds;  the  correct  price  was  one  hundred 
dollars.  One  hundred  dollars  —  it  said  so,  plainly, 
in  the  second  letter,  but  no  more  plainly  than  in 
the  first.  It  was  a  clear  case  of  a  mental  obsession. 
He  had  always  thought  in  pounds,  often  dreamed 
of  the  day  when  such  success  would  be  his  that  his 
pictures  would  sell  for  three  figures,  and  reading 
the  first  letter,  his  delight  and  impatience  had  so 
bemused  him  that  he  had  allowed  a  mental  image 
to  supersede  completely  the  actual  vision  of  his 
eyes.  Twice  —  he  had  read  the  letter  over  again 
before  mislaying  it,  and  from  that  moment  one 
hundred  pounds  had  been  the  centre  of  the  radiant 
vision  that  danced  before  him  waking,  and  hovered 
affectionately  round  him  in  his  dreams. 

And  here  was  his  cheque,  the  cheque  for  which 
he  had  been  waiting.  On  the  strength  of  it  she  had 
just  decided  that  he  was  to  get  married.  On  the 
strength  of  the  promise  of  further  sales  like  this  he 
had  allowed  himself  the  luxury  of  what  had  seemed 
legitimate  elation.  Here  it  was,  fairly  written, 
accompanied  by  a  perfectly  straightforward  and 
honest  letter,  with  a  neat  account,  showing  one 
hundred  dollars  received,  and  deductions  for  cart 
age,  customs,  insurance,  cable,  and,  finally,  selling 


The  Caravan  Man  47 

commission,  leaving  him,  in  English  money  —  they 
had  obligingly  drawn  him  his  cheque  on  an  English 
bank  in  London,  so  that  with  no  preliminary  arith 
metical  calculation  to  delay  the  blow  he  got  it 
flush  in  the  brainpan  at  the  first  glance  —  fourteen 
pounds  seventeen  and  tenpence. 

And  he  had  expected  a  hundred  pounds. 

He  had  always  called  it  a  hundred,  refusing  to 
lessen  the  relish  of  the  round  sum  on  his  tongue  by 
permitting  even  so  much  as  a  halfpenny  commis 
sion  to  be  deducted.  The  full  hundred  sounded  so 
affluent. 

But  that  was  not  all.  He  had  stopped  work 
immediately.  He  had  had  a  holiday,  not  a  very 
enjoyable  one,  but  a  period  of  doing  nothing  and 
just  drifting  about  for  close  on  a  month.  (It  had 
done  him  good;  the  man  was  jaded  from  overwork 
and  the  long  struggle  against  defeat.)  He  had 
bought  clothes.  He  needed  them,  but  he  had  done 
himself  very  well.  He  had  bought  those  two  chairs. 
He  had  settled  his  bill  for  canvases  and  paints, 
long  owing.  He  had  lent  a  bit  to  a  man  in  the  next 
group  of  studios.  He  had  lent  a  bit  —  he  recog 
nized  that  he  had  run  across  quite  a  lot  of  friends 
and  acquaintances,  all  good  fellows,  to  whom  lend 
ing  a  bit  seemed  the  natural  thing,  he  being  now 
one  of  those  happy  men  who  sold  their  stuff  for 
a  cool  hundred  apiece.  A  hundred  pounds,  that  is 
to  say  — 


48  The  Caravan  Man 

He  was  not  an  extravagant  man.  Not  what  you 
might  call  a  careful  man,  either.  He  was  genuinely 
a  man  of  simple  tastes.  He  wanted  to  paint,  and 
life  apart  from  his  work  claimed  little  of  him.  For 
the  last  year  or  two  he  had  made  rather  more 
money  than  he  spent,  and  there  had  been  a  modest 
balance  at  the  bank;  something  near  seventy 
pounds.  He  had  drawn  it  practically  all,  and  it 
was  nearly  gone.  Unbusinesslike?  This  man  was 
an  artist. 

He  dropped  a  line  to  Iffelstein,  the  man  who 
bought  his  pictures.  Iffelstein  was  a  business  man. 
He  came,  saw  Bamfield,  saw  his  way,  too,  to  an 
excellent  stroke  of  business.  Bamfield  was  hard  up 

—  clearly  here  was  a  chance  of  doing  what  every 
business  man  in  this  world  longs  to  do,  dreams  of 
doing  —  a  chance  to  buy  something  good  at  the 
price  of  muck. 

Bamfield  had  three  pictures  near  completion. 
Iffelstein  bought  them,  cheap  for  cash,  Bamfield 
undertaking  to  finish  them.  But  rent-day  was  past, 
Bamfield  for  the  first  time  for  some  years  wanted 
an  advance.  Only  twenty  pounds  or  so.  He  got  it 

—  undertaking  to  paint  three  more  pictures  .  .  . 
Bamfield  finished  the  three  pictures  already  in 

hand;  he  painted  the  three  others;  he  painted  three 
more  on  top  of  that.  He  worked  like  fury.  The 
man's  soul  was  ablaze.  This  sudden  plunge  into 
pennilessness,  debt,  evoked  in  him  a  rage  almost 


The  Caravan  Man  49 

murderous.  He  felt  himself  at  enmity  with  the 
world. 

He  was  ill,  sick  in  body  and  mind.  His  hand 
trembled  as  he  painted.  He  worked  early  and  late. 
With  renewed  bitterness  he  saw  that,  strangely 
enough,  under  this  new  influence  his  work  was 
better  than  ever.  When  IfFelstein's  cart  called  and 
took  the  nine  canvases  away,  Bamfield  knew  that 
he  had  parted  with  the  finest  work  he  had  ever 
achieved. 

In  a  sudden  passion  he  swore  that  he  would  never 
again  submit  to  the  humiliation  of  selling  his  work 
under  such  conditions.  What  was  he  to  do?  He 
must  paint  —  he  could  not  live  without  painting. 
But  this  infamous  sweating,  this  yoking  of  what 
he  knew  beyond  all  doubt  was  a  real  genius  within 
him  to  the  sordid  business  of  mere  living  —  never 
again,  by  God ! 

In  some  such  rebellious  mood  an  idea  occurred 
to  him. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  caravan  man  never  hurried,  apparently, 
or  worried  —  Oh,  yes,  he  did  —  he  worried 
one  member  of  the  Ouseton  community,  the  sta 
tion-master,  ticket-collector,  porter,  goods  super 
visor  at  Ouseton  Station. 

"It's  a  cock-eyed  arrangement,"  he  protested, 
lounging  over  the  sill  of  the  parcels'  office. 

"It  ain't  my  fault,"  said  the  station-master. 

"They  ought  to  rename  this  place." 

"Or  the  other  three,"  suggested  the  station- 
master. 

"I  don't  care  which  they  do,"  said  the  caravan 
man.  "  Four  Ousetons  in  England  —  and  I  suppose 
my  canvases  will  go  the  round  of  the  other  three 
before  they  send  them  on  here?" 

The  station-master  admitted  that  this  was 
possible. 

"Oh  —  well  — "  said  the  caravan  man  irritably, 
and  went  off. 

His  caravan  had  been  on  the  common  for  a 
week,  and  every  morning  before  breakfast  he  went 
down  to  Ouseton  and  worried  the  station-master 
about  his  canvases.  At  least,  he  thought  he  worried 
the  station-master.  He  concluded  that  he  worried 
him.  He  worried  himself  at  times  at  the  thought 


The  Caravan  Man  5 1 

of  how  much  he  must  be  worrying  the  station- 
master.  But  he  need  not  have  worried  over  the 
station-master's  worries.  The  station-master  was 
used  to  the  four-Ouseton  complications  in  the 
British  goods-traffic  world,  and  had  long  ceased 
worrying  over  them.  Consignees,  like  the  caravan 
man,  might  do  the  worrying. 

The  caravan  man  was  nearer  thirty-five  than 
thirty,  nearer  five  feet  ten  than  six  feet,  nearer 
slender  than  stout,  clean-shaven,  rough-haired, 
obstinate,  moody,  changeable  —  also,  likeable.  He 
wore  flannel  trousers,  a  white  sweater,  an  old  tweed 
jacket  with  large  pockets  and  slightly  frayed  cuffs, 
and  a  shapeless,  greenish-brown  hat. 

His  caravan  was  quite  an  ordinary-looking  gipsy 
affair,  with  red  wheels.  Its  motive  power  had  been 
a  phlegmatic  mare.  She,  however,  had  been  sent 
for  overhauling  to  Vining  the  Vet's  immediately 
after  the  caravan's  arrival  on  Ouseton  Common. 

Ouseton  is  only  a  little  place,  compact  and  neat. 
From  the  main  road  crossing  the  common  an  old 
pack-horse  track  leads  to  the  village.  One  day, 
near  where  this  track  and  the  main  road  parted 
company,  the  caravan  had  appeared,  planted  in 
among  the  group  of  beech  trees  there.  Besides  the 
trees  there  are  some  tall  gorse  bushes  and  a  most 
delightful  pond.  A  spring  rises  clear  and  cold  close 
by,  and  tumbling  over  a  boulder  or  two  it  tinkles 
into  this  pool,  immaculately  pellucid  —  unless  you 


5  2  The  Caravan  Man 

rake  the  bottom  with  a  stick  —  shallow,  glittering, 
reed-banked. 

Here,  if  anywhere,  the  genius  of  the  common 
had  its  haunt,  yet,  strange  to  say,  though  now  and 
then  people  passed  it  going  to  or  from  the  Priory, 
none  made  a  habit  of  lingering  there,  save  Rose 
Nieugente.  It  was  her  haunt,  too.  Here  she  would 
come  on  summer  days,  to  sit  and  dream  under  the 
shade  of  the  biggest  of  the  beech  trees,  a  queer, 
misshapen  old  monster  whose  great  roots,  spread 
ing  from  its  distorted  trunk,  clutched  at  the 
ground  like  twisted,  rheumaticky  fingers. 

Since  the  Priory,  Rose's  home,  was  quite  close 
by,  it  was  only  natural  that  Rose  should  have  been 
one  of  the  first  to  note  the  caravan  man's  arrival. 
The  Priory  stood  right  on  the  edge  of  the  common, 
and  within  a  minute's  walk  of  the  pond.  Looking 
from  her  bedroom  window  one  night  before  she 
got  into  bed,  she  was  aware  of  a  movement  near 
the  pond.  A  light  gleamed  there,  something  heavy 
and  bulky  was  being  manoeuvred  into  position, 
the  sound  of  a  man's  voice  addressing  a  horse 
reached  her  occasionally. 

Life  at  the  Priory  was  most  uneventful.  Rose 
felt  that  instant  uprising  of  interest  within  her 
which  only  those  who  dwell  in  out-of-the-way  vil 
lages  for  long  years  can  appreciate.  Something 
happening,  and  quite  near  the  Priory  —  a  delicious 
thought  to  go  to  sleep  on. 


The  Caravan  Man  5  3 

Next  morning  she  got  a  little  information  and  a 
good  deal  of  speculation  from  Mary  the  parlour 
maid.  Aunt  Anne  and  Granny  discussed  the  new 
fact  at  breakfast.  A  caravan  on  the  common ;  not 
a  gipsy  caravan,  that  is  to  say,  not  strictly  under 
that  head.  Not,  apparently,  what  might  be  called 
a  family  caravan.  There  was  just  one  man  in  it. 
Not  a  gipsy,  Mary  was  sure.  He  had  said  "Good- 
morning"  to  her.  Of  course  gipsies  say  it  too,  but 
only  evilly  intending.  Mary  did  not  think  the  man 
was  evilly  intending.  Mary  was  sure  —  Mary  was 
pulled  up  abruptly.  Apparently  Mary  had  been 
early  afoot  and  scouting  diligently.  Aunt  Anne 
condescended  to  receive  facts  from  her,  but  not 
conclusions.  Aunt  Anne  would  draw  her  own  con 
clusions. 

Well,  here  was  a  caravan,  and  a  caravan  man. 
Aunt  Anne  and  Granny  looked  at  Rose,  who  went 
on  with  her  egg  as  unconcernedly  in  appearance  as 
she  could  contrive.  From  long  experience  she 
guessed  what  was  in  their  minds,  but  by  good  for 
tune  it  failed  to  crystallize  into  words.  She  re 
ceived  no  interdict  against  going  near  the  pond 
till  further  instructions  were  issued. 

She  was  thus  able  quite  honestly  later  in  the  day 
to  visit  the  caravan. 

All  that  transpired  on  that  subject  was  an 
instruction  by  Aunt  Anne  when  after  lunch  Rose 
was  starting  for  Ouseton  on  some  trifling  house- 


54  The  Caravan  Man 

hold  errand.  It  was  always  a  matter  of  choice  with 
her  whether  she  walked  across  the  common  or  went 
by  the  road.  The  road  was  shorter,  the  common 
was  pleasanter.  "Go  by  the  road,  Rose,"  said 
Aunt  Anne  as  she  despatched  her.  Rose  went  by 
the  road  without  comment. 

At  one  point  you  got  quite  a  good  view  of  the 
pond.  Rose  had  a  look  as  she  walked.  There  it 
was,  a  large,  roomy  caravan  with  red  wheels.  A 
wisp  of  smoke  curled  about  it,  evidently  from  a 
fire  of  sticks  under  the  trees.  Something  on  two 
legs  moved  about.  Very  interesting.  Gipsies  never 
ventured  so  near  the  Priory.  Gipsies  in  their  own 
uncanny  way  knew  all  about  Aunt  Anne,  and  kept 
to  the  Cuckleford  end.  Rose  felt  that  she  would 
like  to  know  something  about  the  caravan. 

But  of  course  caution  was  called  for.  Most  dis 
tinctly  more  must  be  known  about  this  caravan 
before  she  would  be  allowed  to  venture  near.  Aunt 
Anne  had  twice  walked  past  during  the  morning, 
and  spoke  with  some  definiteness  at  lunch.  The 
caravan,  it  appeared,  was  occupied  by  a  single  ten 
ant,  a  man,  young,  or  youngish,  whose  appearance 
apparently  had  impressed  Aunt  Anne  unfavourably. 
This  last  fact  did  not  weigh  so  much  as  perhaps  it 
ought  to  have  done  with  Rose.  More  than  once, 
she  had  been  compelled  to  admit,  her  tastes  in 
several  directions  had  proved  to  be  somewhat  at 
variance  with  Aunt  Anne's.  The  caravan  man  was 


The  Caravan  Man  5  5 

not  a  gipsy,  but  the  tone  of  disapproval  in  which 
Aunt  Anne  reported  him  to  be  an  untidy  person 
suggested  gipsyish  ways. 

From  her  bedroom  window  after  tea  Rose  took 
a  look  at  the  caravan.  You  could  not  see  it  plainly, 
nearly  hidden  as  it  was  by  the  trees  near  the  pond, 
but  it  did  not  look  a  gipsy  caravan.  Something 
about  the  paint  made  it  look  different.  And  while 
she  looked,  the  caravan  man  himself  passed  the 
holly  hedge  that  bounded  the  Priory  grounds  on 
the  common  side,  and  walked  towards  the  caravan. 
Rose  stepped  back  from  the  window,  but  looked 
at  him.  Yes,  an  untidy  person.  He  had  no  hat  on. 
The  coat-collar  of  his  coat,  evidently  an  old  one, 
was  rolled  up  at  the  back.  His  hands  were  deep 
in  the  pockets  of  his  grey  flannel  trousers,  and  he 
smoked  a  large  pipe.  His  walk  was  ruminating. 
Rose  failed  to  gather  any  impression  of  him  as  un 
favourable  as  Aunt  Anne's. 

It  was  a  mere  coincidence  that  just  as  he  disap 
peared  from  view  Rose  remembered  her  book. 
Yesterday  afternoon  and  evening  she  had  been 
reading  by  the  pond  in  her  favourite  spot  a  book 
she  had  got  from  the  circulating  library  in  the 
village.  She  had  not  been  able  to  put  her  hand  on 
it  that  morning,  and  only  now  she  felt  certain  that 
she  must  have  left  it  behind  her  at  the  time. 

Obviously  she  ought  to  go  and  get  it.  No,  obvi 
ously  she  had  better  not.  Perhaps  it  would  be  well 


5  6  The  Caravan  Man 

to  send  Mary,  the  parlourmaid,  across;  perhaps, 
after  all,  she  ought  to  mention  the  matter  to  Aunt 
Anne.  Yes,  that  was  the  right  thing  to  do. 

The  wise  in  these  matters  may  perhaps  explain 
why  she  did  not  do  it. 

At  5.30  that  evening  Aunt  Anne  went  out. 
Granny  had  been  driven  in  the  pony-chaise  after 
lunch  to  visit  an  acquaintance  and  take  tea  over  at 
Cuckleford.  Aunt  Anne  would  walk  there  and 
drive  back  with  Granny  in  time  for  dinner  at  7.30. 

About  six  o'clock  Rose  went  over  to  the  caravan. 
She  approached  the  spot  with  a  fine  correctness  of 
demeanour,  head  high,  but  not  too  high,  an  air 
of  hauteur  touched  with  condescension,  but  still 
human.  She  wore  a  coat  over  her  blouse.  Inter 
viewing  a  stranger,  she  put  her  defences  in  good 
order. 

The  caravan  man  was  not  visible,  but  Rose 
heard  him  moving  about  inside.  She  halted  close 
to  the  door,  opening  onto  the  high  platform  just 
above  the  level  of  the  back  wheels,  and  waited. 
She  liked  the  look  of  the  caravan.  It  was  painted 
a  sort  of  saffron  yellow,  picked  out  with  green.  It 
had  a  green  door  and  red  wheels.  The  shafts,  in 
gipsy  fashion,  were  removed,  and  stood  against 
one  side,  and  the  steps  had  been  erected  leading 
up  to  the  door  by  the  driver's  seat.  On  the  plat 
form,  at  one  side  of  the  doorway,  wired  in  to  pre 
vent  them  falling  out,  were  three  earthen  flower- 


The  Caravan  Man  5  7 

pots,  brick-red,  standing  in  saucers  of  the  same 
ware.  One  had  dog-daisies,  the  second  geraniums, 
the  third  nasturtiums,  all  flourishing  finely.  No 
gipsy  this. 

Against  one  wheel  rested  a  fishing-rod,  with  a 
line  and  float.  Evidently  the  caravan  man  had  dis 
covered  or  been  told  that  among  the  water-lilies 
that  spread  out  halfway  across  the  pond  from  the 
bank  just  by  were  quite  a  number  of  fine  carp. 
Very,  very  rarely  one  was  caught.  One,  however,  a 
monster  of  the  greatest  antiquity  in  appearance, 
might  be  seen  on  one  or  two  occasions  each  year 
sunning  himself;  but  he  was  hopeless.  He  knew 
far  more  about  fishing  than  any  man,  it  was  said. 
People  spoke  of  him  with  affection.  Ouseton  as 
sumed  a  sort  of  reputation  for  sagacity  on  the 
strength  of  Mouldy  Methusaleh.  That  was  what 
they  called  the  old  carp.  Perhaps  the  caravan  man 
was,  or  had  been,  trying  to  catch  him.  Huh ! 

The  movement  in  the  caravan  continued  for 
some  minutes  or  so,  then  the  caravan  man  ap 
peared  at  the  door.  He  came  down  the  steps.  Rose 
noted  that  he  came  down  backwards.  He  saw 
Rose,  and  halted,  looking  at  her  enquiringly.  Rose 
moved  a  little  towards  him.  "Good-evening,"  she 
said.  She  had  not  meant  to  say  good-evening.  It 
had  not  occurred  to  her  consciously  that  the  man 
in  the  caravan  would  be  the  sort  of  man  one  said 
good-evening  to.  At  the  most,  in  addressing  people 


5  8  The  Caravan  Man 

of  that  kind,  one  began  with,  "Oh  — "  Aunt  Anne 
did  n't  even  do  that.  Rose,  however,  said,  "Good- 
evening." 

"Good-evening,"  responded  the  caravan  man. 

"I  wanted  to  know,"  said  Rose,  "if  you  happen 
to  have  found  a  book." 

"A  book?"  said  the  caravan  man,  enquiringly. 

"A  book,"  replied  Rose. 

Rose  liked  the  air  of  polite  solicitude  with  which 
he  took  the  matter  up. 

"You  have  lost  a  book?" 

" I  think  —  I'm  sure,  that  I  left  one  here,  yes 
terday  afternoon." 

"You  were  reading  here?" 

"Yes." 

"Where,  exactly,  if  I  may  ask?" 

"Just  about  where  your  caravan  is,  under  the 
tree  just  by  the  edge  of  the  pond." 

She  moved  a  little  towards  the  place.  So  did  he. 
This  brought  them  nearer.  He  looked  about  the 
spot  she  had  indicated.  He  looked  with  great 
energy,  stooping,  turning  his  head  this  way  and 
that,  peering,  in  fact,  more  lik«  a  Red  Indian 
tracker  following  a  faint  trail  than  an  ordinary 
white  man  looking  for  a  book. 

There  was  n't  any  book  there.  Yet  Rose  could 
now  recall  exactly  where  she  had  left  it.  She  had 
laid  it  down  beside  her  half  read  —  it  had  not  been 
very  interesting  —  and  was  sitting  dreaming, 


The  Caravan  Man  59 

when  she  had  heard  the  Ouseton  church  clock 
strike  seven.  They  dined  early  at  the  Priory,  and 
she  had  jumped  up  at  once,  and  gone  home,  leaving 
the  book  behind.  Here  was  the  place,  just  behind 
this  patch  of  reeds  in  the  pond.  She  had  remem 
bered  the  book  again  only  when  she  was  in  bed, 
but  it  did  not  matter.  It  would  take  little  harm, 
and  no  one  would  see  it,  or  appropriate  it  even  if 
they  noticed  it.  Ouseton  people  knew  this  was 
Miss  Nieugente's  place  to  sit  and  read. 

The  caravan  man  continued  to  look  about  him 
with  an  interest  so  tense  that  at  last  it  began  almost 
to  embarrass  Rose. 

"  It  really  does  n't  matter,"  she  said,  and  began 
to  move  away. 

"Oh,  but  it  does.  A  book  can't  be  lost,  you  know. 
Was  it  a  book  bound  in  light-blue,  with  gilt  edges 
and  red  corners?" 

"No,"  she  said;  then  in  some  surprise,  "Have 
you  found  a  book  like  that?" 

"No,"  he  said  simply. 

Rose  was  puzzled,  but  checked  her  obvious 
question. 

"Mine  was  a  reddy-brown  cover,  with  a  black 
back,  with  the  title  on  it  in  gold  letters." 

"What  was  the  title?"  he  asked  earnestly,  so 
earnestly  that  Rose  did  not  like  to  point  out  that 
in  looking  for  a  book  lost  on  an  open  common  a 
knowledge  of  the  title  would  be  little  help. 


60  The  Caravan  Man 

'"Hearts' — "  she  began,  and  stopped.  Really 
this  man  did  not  matter  in  the  least,  but  somehow 
Rose  did  not  like  to  confess  that  she  had  been 
reading  a  book  entitled  as  stupidly  as  the  one  she 
had  mislaid.  So  she  wound  up,  "Really,  I  don't 
think  the  title  matters." 

"No,"  he  assented  heartily.  "That's  true.  It's 
the  stuff  in  the  book,  not  its  name,  that  counts. 
Lots  of  books,  really  first-rate  reading,  have  un 
fortunate  titles."  He  seemed  inclined  to  involve 
her  in  a  disquisition  on  books.  This  she  could  not 
permit. 

"Well,  if  you  come  across  it — "  she  began, 
moving  away. 

"Oh,  I  shall  find  it."  Somehow  he  managed  to 
instil  into  his  voice  a  detaining  quality,  so  that  even 
as  she  walked  away  she  felt  compelled  to  stop  and 
turn  towards  him.  "You  don't  think,"  he  hazarded, 
"that  it  might  have  rolled  into  the  pond?" 

"I  don't  see  how  it  could,"  she  answered;  yet 
she  felt  she  had  to  wait  while  he  went  down  the 
bank  and  stared  into  the  water,  among  the  tall 
reeds.  "Or  into  a  rabbit-hole?"  There  were  rabbit- 
holes  about  among  the  beech  roots.  He  began  to 
look  into  these.  Rose  felt  rather  inclined  to  laugh. 
Was  it  a  book  he  was  looking  for,  or  an  escaped 
Lilliputian  prisoner?  "It  really  doesn't  matter," 
she  assured  him. 

"Well,  I'll  have  a  good  look  for  it,  and  I'm  sure 


The  Caravan  Man  6 1 

to  come  across  it.  If  I  find  it,  where  shall  I  bring  it  ? " 

"Oh,  don't  trouble.  I  shall  be  passing."  She 
said  that,  and  instantly  flushed  as  she  saw  she  had 
said  the  wrong  thing.  She  had  only  meant  to  dis 
countenance  at  once  any  suggestion  of  this  man's 
calling  at  the  Priory.  She  saw  that  in  doing  so  she 
had  quite  definitely  indicated  her  intention  of 
passing,  visiting,  the  caravan  again. 

"Well,  any  time  you're  passing,  if  I'm  about," 
he  responded  cheerfully. 

She  nodded  stiffly  and  went  away.  She  had  gone 
not  a  dozen  paces  when  his  voice  detained  her 
again.  "Did  you  say  a  blue  back?" 

"Black,"  she  answered. 

"Oh,  pardon  —  yes,  black.  With  gilt  letters,  I 
think?" 

"Gilt  letters." 

"Thanks.  I'll  remember.  Not  a  big  book,  I 
suppose?" 

"No." 

"About— so  big?" 

He  held  his  hands  to  indicate  a  size.  Absurd! 
Did  the  man  think  she  was  enquiring  for  a  family 
Bible? 

"Rather  less,"  she  told  him. 

"So?" 

"About  that." 

"Good.  I  'm  sure  to  find  it,  and  if  you're  passing 
this  way  again  —  to-day  — ?" 


6  2  The  Caravan  Man 

"Thank  you.  Good-evening." 

"  Good-evening." 

She  went  away  with  a  faint  idea  that  either  the 
man  was  rather  dense,  or  that  behind  his  apparent 
earnestness  was  something  that  was  —  well,  really, 
it  would  be  downright  impudence —  But  it 
couldn't — surely  he  was  not  that  sort  of  man! 
She  rather  puzzled  as  to  what  sort  of  man  he 
was.  He  was  decidedly  shabbily  dressed.  His  grey 
flannel  trousers  had  stains  on  them  —  spots  of  oil 
apparently.  His  white  sweater  was  dingy.  He  had 
no  hat  on,  and  his  hair  looked  as  if  it  wanted  cut 
ting  as  well  as  combing.  His  speech  had  not  been 
exactly  common,  however.  He  was  n't  a  country 
man,  evidently.  She  felt,  however,  that  if  he  found 
the  book  he  would  undoubtedly  return  it. 

In  the  meantime  the  caravan  man  climbing  into 
his  caravan  had  felt  under  the  seat  of  a  chair  in 
one  corner,  and  had  extracted  a  book,  with  reddy- 
brown  covers,  a  black  back,  and  the  title  "Hearts 
Entangled"  stamped  on  it  in  gilt  letters.  He  looked 
it  through  thoughtfully,  then  put  it  back  under 
the  seat. 

If  he  had  formed  an  idea  that  he  was  going  to 
receive  an  early  visit  from  the  girl  he  had  deceived 
in  so  unprincipled  a  fashion,  he  was  mistaken.  Rose 
did  not  again  visit  the  caravan,  either  that  evening 
or  the  next  morning.  Once  or  twice  next  day  he 
saw  the  white  dress  and  the  black  tam-o'-shanter 


The  Caravan  Man  63 

pass  along  the  road  that  skirted  the  common,  but 
their  wearer  never  crossed  the  turf  among  the  gorse 
bushes  towards  his  caravan.  With  no  sense  of 
offence  or  fear,  Rose  had  decided  that  she  had 
better  keep  away  from  the  caravan.  No  sense  of 
offence,  nothing  of  fear  —  this  explains,  perhaps, 
why  she  felt  if  anything  rather  pleased  when,  going 
to  the  village  in  the  afternoon,  she  was  aware  that 
the  grey  flannel  trousers  and  the  dingy  sweater 
were  moving  rapidly  towards  her.  She  looked 
straight  in  front  of  her,  but  all  the  same  she  could 
see  that  a  towel  or  something  of  the  sort  was  being 
waved.  This  was  decidedly  unceremonious  —  you 
must  understand  that  Miss  Rose  Nieugente,  grand 
daughter  of  Old  Mrs.  Grampette,  at  the  Priory, 
was  a  personage  thereabouts  —  but  after  a  moment 
she  decided  that  there  was  nothing  undignified  in 
admitting  the  fact  that  she  was  aware  that  the 
caravan  man  was  coming  to  speak  to  her.  She 
turned  her  head  towards  him,  halted,  and  waited. 
He  came  up  in  a  hurry. 

"Good-afternoon,"  he  said  very  heartily,  as  he 
approached. 

"Good-afternoon,"  answered  Rose,  quite  prop 
erly  stand-off. 

"A  reddy-brown  book,  you  said?"  he  enquired. 

"Yes." 

"With  a  black  back?" 

"Yes." 


64  The  Caravan  Man 

"Gilt  title?" 

"Yes." 

'"Hearts  Enwrapped'?" 

"Yes  —  no — 'Hearts  Entangled.'"  He  was 
annoying  her.  If  the  man  had  found  a  book,  it 
did  n't  want  all  this  identification.  It  was  stupid. 
Was  he  stupid?  She  looked  at  him.  No.  Then  was 
he —  no,  surely  not;  never  making  fun.  Oh,  well, 
it  really  did  n't  matter.  Evidently  he  had  her 
book  and  would  give  it  her. 

He  did  nothing  of  the  kind. 

"I  found  it." 

"Thank  you." 

"I've  got  it." 

"Thank  you." 

"In  my  caravan." 

"Oh! — "  He  hadn't  even  had  the  sense  to 
bring  the  book  across  with  him.  Evidently  stupid, 
then.  She  felt  disappointed. 

"I  saw  you  passing,"  he  explained,  "and  ran 
across  to  tell  you.  Now,  where  can  I  leave  the 
book  for  you?" 

She  was  determined  to  accept  no  favour. 

"Don't  trouble.  I'll  call  when  I  pass." 

"Oh,  but  I  might  not  be  in." 

"It  won't  matter." 

"But,  if  you'd  say  when  you  will  be  passing, 
I'll  take  care  to  be  there,  and  have  it  handy." 

This  was  sheer  common  sense.  It  would  be  too 


The  Caravan  Man  65 

pointed  not  to  accept  the  arrangement.  "Very 
well.  I  shall  be  coming  back  in  an  hour  or  so,  and 
I  will  call  at  your  caravan." 

"Do,"  he  said,  cheerfully,  "and  I'll  be  in." 

She  merely  inclined  her  head  and  walked  on. 

It  was  about  an  hour  later  when,  her  errand 
finished,  she  set  out  again  for  the  Priory,  taking 
the  common  way.  To  her  great  surprise,  she  had 
hardly  gone  a  hundred  yards  along  the  green  path 
among  the  gorse  that  led  to  the  pond  when  she 
heard  footsteps  behind  her,  and  turning  encoun 
tered  the  caravan  man.  He  drew  up  by  her  side  — 
again  with  that  eager  and  earnest  smile  whose 
complete  innocence  she  was  now  beginning  faintly 
to  doubt.  He  had  a  shabby  hat  on  this  time,  and 
this  he  doffed  with  due  deference. 

"How  fortunate!"  he  said.  "I  was  hoping  to 
meet  you.  I  remembered  after  you  were  gone  that 
I  had  an  appointment  in  the  village  about  my 
camera,  and  I  had  to  run  down  there.  I  Ve  been 
hurrying  back.  My  camera,"  he  added,  evidently 
introducing  the  canvas  bag  he  was  carrying  under 
his  arm.  "  I  had  to  get  the  bellows  mended." 

Rose  had  to  say  something,  though  she  felt 
bound  to  say  it  stiffly.  Nothing  in  her  arranging 
to  call  for  her  book  should  have  involved  her  in 
this  walk  in  his  actual  company.  Still,  again,  in 
face  of  his  explanation  one  could  not  take  offence. 
"Camera?"  she  said. 


66  The  Caravan  Man 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "  I  'm  a  photographer,  you  know. 
You  don't  happen  to  know  any  one  in  this  neigh 
bourhood  who  wants  a  photograph  taken?" 

"No." 

"Excuse  my  asking.  But,  you  see,  coming  into 
a  new  neighbourhood,  it's  important  to  get  going. 
Once  make  a  start,  get  some  one  to  give  you  a  sit 
ting,  and  you  're  all  right.  I  'm  hoping  to  meet  some 
one  who'll  patronize  me,  some  one  influential,  you 
know,  who'd  set  the  fashion.  Not,"  he  added, 
"that  I'm  greedy  for  custom.  I  like  to  take  a  few 
photographs  and  take  them  well." 

This  was  commendable.  Rose  felt  it  incumbent 
on  her  to  drop  him  a  word  of  kindly  approval. 
"That  is  a  very  proper  spirit."  She  felt  like  Aunt 
Anne  as  she  said  it. 

"You  think  so?"  he  asked  gratefully.  "I'm  so 
glad.  I  wish  there  were  more  people  in  the  world 
like  you." 

Rose  did  not  answer  this.  She  was  conscious  of 
a  feeling,  which  perhaps  smacked  of  haughty  pride, 
that  possibly  the  world  would  be  nicer  to  live  in  if 
there  were  more  people  like  herself.  Still,  she 
could  not  very  well  admit  the  thought  to  this 
man,  and,  besides,  she  had  a  feeling  that  the  re 
mark  was  not  one  he  should  have  ventured  to 
express,  even  if  there  were  no  harm  in  his  thinking 
it.  So  she  merely  walked  on,  the  caravan  man  by 
her  side. 


The  Caravan  Man  67 

When  they  reached  the  caravan  he  ran  up  the 
steps  and  brought  out  her  missing  book. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said.  "I'm  sorry  to  have 
troubled  you  so  much." 

"Not  at  all.  A  pleasure.  You  have  n't  lost  any 
thing  else,  I  suppose?" 

"I  don't  think  so." 

"Not  a  hatpin,  for  instance?" 

"No  —  at  least  —  have  I ?" 

"I  found  one." 

"I  did  n't  know.  May  I  see  it?" 

He  went  in  again,  and  presently  came  down  the 
steps  with  a  hatpin.  Rose  knew  it  at  once;  it  was 
one  she  had  lost  some  weeks  before.  It  had  a  pretty 
silver  top,  but  the  shaft  was  rusted. 

"Found  it  down  a  rabbit-hole,"  explained  the 
caravan  man. 

"  It  is  mine,"  said  Rose.  "Thank  you,  I  'm  sure." 

He  gave  it  her.  "Now,  is  there  anything  else?" 

"No  —  at  least,  I  don't  think  so."  She  won 
dered  what  he  could  have  found. 

"Sure?" 

"I  think  not.  What  else  have  you  found?" 

"Nothing." 

"Oh."  He  was  a  puzzling  sort  of  man. 

"Only  I  thought,  if  you  had  lost  anything  else, 
I  might  have  a  look  round  for  it  this  evening,  and 
next  time  you're  passing — " 

"I'm  sure  I  have  n't  lost  anything  else." 


6  8  The  Caravan  Man 

"Well,  all  right;  but  one  never  knows." 

"Of  course  —  and  thank  you  for  finding  my 
book  and  my  hatpin.  Good-evening." 

* '  Good-evening. ' ' 

She  moved  away.  He  spoke  again.  "When  are 
you  going  to  let  me  take  your  photograph?" 

"Photograph?  —  I  —  I  did  n't  say  —  I  mean, 
I  'm  not  thinking  of  having  my  photograph  taken." 

"Are  n't  you?  Why  not?" 

He  put  his  abrupt  question  so  solemnly  that 
Rose  felt  a  touch  of  guilt.  He  seemed  to  suggest 
that  she  had  overlooked  a  duty  —  or,  at  any  rate, 
a  proper  custom.  Rose  could  not  for  the  life  of  her 
see  why  she  should  feel  apologetic  about  it,  yet 
somehow  an  explanation  seemed  demanded. 

"I  had  my  photograph  taken  only  two  years 
ago." 

"Two  years  —  it  can't  be  a  bit  like  you  now. 
You  Ve  altered  tremendously  in  the  last  two  years, 
haven't  you?" 

Rose  could  not  deny  it.  For  one  thing,  her  hair. 
In  her  photograph  it  showed  as  a  thick  pigtail, 
pulled  over  onto  her  breast,  at  Granny's  request, 
when  the  photograph  was  taken.  Then,  last  sum 
mer,  the  queer  illness  had  come  that  kept  her  in 
doors  all  June  and  part  of  July,  and  had  made  her 
hair  come  out  "in  handsful."  Anxious  consulta 
tions  with  Mr.  Hooper  who  did  the  "Ladies' 
Special  Hairdressing"  in  Ouseton  had  resulted  in 


The  Caravan  Man  69 

his  clipping  it  off  short,  almost  a  schoolboy  crop, 
and  now  it  hung  just  below  her  ears,  thick,  live- 
looking,  but  making  her  look,  she  knew,  totally 
different  from  the  girl  photographed  two  years  ago. 
She  had  never  thought  about  it,  but  now,  being 
questioned,  she  felt  rise  in  her  the  desire  that  comes 
to  every  self-respecting  girl  of  twenty  for  a  really 
good  photograph. 

And  then,  too,  there  was  the  fact  that  she  was 
under  an  obligation  to  this  man,  a  complete 
stranger,  and,  moreover,  a  man  who  got  his  living 
as  a  photographer.  He  had  recovered  her  book 
and  her  hatpin,  and  had  most  courteously  offered 
to  do  any  further  service  she  might  require  in 
that  direction.  She  could  not  very  well  offer  him 
money,  but  here  he  was,  no  doubt  from  a  proper 
business  spirit,  suggesting  just  the  way  in  which 
she  could  discharge  her  debt.  She  ought  to  patron 
ize  him. 

See,  now,  Rose's  dilemma,  and  comprehend  her 
embarrassment,  the  cause  of  the  faint  tinge  of  red 
that  went  creeping  over  her  cheeks.  Rose  was  short 
of  money  —  as  usual. 

It  was  not  that  she  was  extravagant.  There  was 
perhaps  a  certain  heedlessness  about  her  in  money 
matters.  Aunt  Anne  had  often  rebuked  her  for  it. 
Aunt  Anne  had  a  tremendous  head  for  domestic 
figuring.  Aunt  Anne  never  in  her  life  forgot  to  pick 
up  her  change,  or  allowed  her  change,  by  foul  play 


70  The  Caravan  Man 

or  fair  miscalculation,  to  fall  one  halfpenny  from 
its  just  level.  Rose  did.  And  the  result  was  that 
it  had  been  agreed  that  "she  was  not  to  be  trusted 
with  money  till  she  showed  herself  able  to  take 
care  of  it."  Aunt  Anne  meant  genuinely  enough 
to  rouse  any  dormant  genius  for  finance  that  might 
lie  in  Rose's  head.  So  far,  if  there,  it  had  slum 
bered  on,  unheeding.  All  Rose  knew  about  her 
slender  allowance  for  this  month  was  that  she  had 
about  seven-and-sixpence  left  to  carry  her  through 
the  month.  It  was  now  the  9th. 

"How  much  do  you  charge?"  she  faltered,  and 
knew  herself  on  the  instant  committed  to  having 
her  picture  taken.  She  had  raised  the  question  of 
price,  and  for  her  dignity's  sake  could  now  do  no 
less  than  sit. 

"The  price  of  one  dozen  cabinet  prints,  vignetted, 
sepia-toned,  on  plain  mounts,  is  five  shillings." 

Was  that  all?  —  Thank  goodness,  she  could  do 
it.  And  since  she  could,  she  must. 

"I  think  —  I  think  I'll  have  my  photograph 
done,"  she  told  him. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said,  so  gratefully  that  Rose 
saw  instantly  the  anxiety  he  had  been  through 
while  endeavouring  to  secure  her  patronage.  He 
was  very  poor,  no  doubt,  and  though  five  shillings 
was  n't  a  lot  to  charge,  it  meant  bread-and-butter 
to  him.  He  was  tremendously  businesslike,  too. 
He  began  to  settle  preliminaries  on  the  spot. 


The  Caravan  Man  7 1 

"How  would  you  like  it  taken?"  he  proceeded. 
"Profile,  or  full  face,  or —  how?" 

" I  don't  know,"  said  Rose.  "Perhaps  I 'd  better 
let  you  decide." 

"If  you  think  so.  The  profile  is  —  yes  —  ah- 
hum  —  certainly  —  would  you  mind  if  I — "  He 
walked  round  and  surveyed  her  full  face.  It  was  a 
little  trying,  but  Rose  instantly  stiffened  herself  as 
a  young  lady  should,  and  allowed  no  sign  of  em 
barrassment  to  betray  her.  "Full  face  also  is  ex 
cellent,"  murmured  the  caravan  man.  "And  three 
quarters"  —  he  stepped  to  one  side — "just  as 
promising.  I  should  have  all  three,"  he  recom 
mended,  "and  then  there's  all  sorts  of  possibili 
ties"  —  he  passed  behind  her  —  she  half  turned  — 
"yes,  head  over  shoulder,  chin  down"  —  Rose 
lifted  her  chin;  "also  up.  If  I  may  say  so,  you 
should  give  excellent  results  from  any  point  of 


view." 


"But — I  don't  think  —  I'm  afraid —  How 
much  will  they  be?"  Rose  never  dared  get  far 
away  from  that  point. 

He  reassured  her  cheerfully.  "All  in  the  one 
price,  five  shillings  only." 

"What —  a  number  of  poses?" 

"As  many  as  you  like.  I  make  no  restrictions. 
Have  a  dozen  different,  one  to  each  print  I  advise." 

Were  n't  they  cheap!  "Thank  you,"  said  Rose. 
"I  will,  then."  She  said  it  with  real  feeling.  No 


7  2  The  Caravan  Man 

normal  woman  exists  in  whom  the  prospect  of 
being  photographed  does  not  rouse  a  feeling  of 
pleasure,  and  to  be  taken  in  this  lavish,  this  opu 
lent  fashion  —  A  sudden  spurt  of  enthusiasm  for 
photography  ran  through  her. 

"When  will  you  sit?"  asked  the  caravan  man; 
and  suddenly  Rose  blenched.  It  was  all  very  well 
to  plan  a  sitting  on  this  extended  scale,  but  to  put 
the  scheme  into  execution  was  quite  another  thing. 
It  went  without  saying,  she  knew,  that  she  was 
now  landed  into  a  course  of  deceit,  for  the  simple 
reason  that  what  she  proposed  would  be  instantly 
forbidden  by  both  Aunt  Anne  and  Granny. 
Nothing  much  further  had  been  said  about  the 
caravan  man  at  the  Priory,  but  no  question  had 
been  allowed  to  exist  as  to  his  status.  He  was  an 
undesirable.  Rose  knew  that,  and  on  reflection 
her  inward  pleasure  damped  down.  A  dozen  poses 
—  It  would  be  difficult  to  snatch  time  for  one.  And 
at  that  reflection  the  little  thrill  of  exultation  that 
had  possessed  her  at  the  delicious  thought  of  so 
many  pictures  faded  away  into  her  usual  resigna 
tion  to  authority.  The  whole  thing  was  impossible. 

"I  hope  you  won't  think  me  changeable,  but,  I 
almost  think  I  won't  have  them  done."  She  went 
quite  white  as  she  said  it.  She  would  have  given  — 
what  would  she  not?  —  to  have  been  able  to  say, 
"You  may  expect  me  on  Monday  morning  at 
eleven,  if  that  will  suit  you." 


The  Caravan  Man  7  3 

"Not?"  said  the  caravan  man,  disappointed 
evidently. 

"I  think  not."  She  got  it  out  decidedly,  and 
turned  to  go.  But  could  she?  Was  it  possible  to 
swing  away  in  that  abrupt  fashion?  No.  She  could 
not  hurt  the  man's  feelings  so  callously. 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  murmured. 

"So  am  I,"  said  the  caravan  man. 

"  I  had  forgotten  something." 

"Yes?" 

"As  it  happens,  I  am  not  likely  to  be  free  on  — 
on  —  on  that  day." 

"Which  day?" 

"The  day  I  meant  to  choose,"  said  poor  Rose. 

"Choose  another,"  said  the  caravan  man  per 
suasively.  "I  shall  be  rather  busy  that  day  my 
self." 

"I  mean,  I  hardly  know  how  I  can  find  time." 

"It  won't  take  long." 

"Then,  perhaps,  another  time — "  No,  that 
would  not  do.  You  must  n't  leave  people  expecting 
like  that.  "  I  'm  really  afraid  I  must  say,  better  not  ex 
pect  me.  I  don't  see  how  I  can  come  at  all  just  now." 

The  caravan  man  seemed  inclined  to  bring  for 
ward  either  question  or  suggestion,  but  almost  as 
if  he  had  glimpsed  in  her  face  the  distress  she  felt, 
he  forebore,  and  Rose  felt  grateful  to  him  when 
he  suddenly  accepted  the  situation.  "Very  well. 
I  'm  sorry." 


74  The  Caravan  Man 

"So  am  I.  Good-evening,"  said  Rose,  and  went 
away. ...  At  breakfast  next  morning  Rose  had  a 
shock.  The  caravan  man  had  been  encountered 
on  the  Cuckleford  road  at  twelve  o'clock  the  night 
before,  in  a  state  of  disgusting  inebriety,  his  arms 
linked  with  those  of  three  other  men  of  low  class, 
all  staggering  about  the  road,  singing,  shouting,  and 
behaving  generally  in  a  shocking  way.  They  had  been 
seen  by  Aunt  Anne  herself,  Aunt  Anne,  whose  lynx 
eyes  saw  everything  and  never  mistook  a  face. 

Rose  felt  a  wave  of  shame  sweep  over  her.  This 
was  awful.  She  had  spoken  to  this  man,  had  vis 
ited  the  spot  on  which  his  moving  habitation  was 
planted  —  only  temporarily,  thank  goodness;  had 
engaged  him  in  conversation  —  and  all  unknown 
to  Aunt  Anne  or  Granny.  True,  she  told  the  accus 
ing  voice  that  thundered  within  her,  she  had  no 
direction  not  to  visit  the  caravan,  and  not  the 
slightest  idea  of  the  debased  character  of  the  indi 
vidual  whose  sins  had  so  soon  found  him  out.  But 
in  her  heart  of  hearts  she  knew  herself  a  sinner.  No 
interdict?  No,  not  expressed,  but — implied? 
Most  certainly.  And,  hacking  away  ruthlessly  at 
her  hurriedly  made  defences,  her  dumb  pleadings 
with  an  outraged  conscience,  one  damning  fact 
faced  her  —  she  had  carefully  kept  from  both 
Aunt  Anne  and  Granny  all  knowledge  of  her  visit 
to  the  caravan. 

In  that  lay  her  admission  of  sin.   When,  that 


The  Caravan  Man  7  5 

morning  in  church,  she  would  openly  before,  and 
in  company  with,  the  congregation,  confess  that 
"there  was  no  health  in  her,"  and  that  she  had 
"done  those  things  she  ought  not  to  have  done," 
she  now  recognized  that  the  words  would  not,  as 
heretofore,  constitute  a  confession  so  vague  that  it 
never  amounted  to  anything  really  disturbing. 
They  now  embodied  a  grim  truth. 

There  was  but  one  thing  to  do  —  she  must 
immediately  make  full  admission  to  her  two  rela 
tives.  She  had  done  wrong.  Confession  must  pre 
cede  absolution.  It  was  awful.  She  must  own  up. 
She  would  now  do  so.  She  opened  her  mouth  to 
speak.  The  words,  "Granny,  I  must  tell  you — " 
trembled  on  her  tongue.  They  died  there.  Her  lips 
closed  again.  In  that  agonizing  moment,  when 
every  instinct  within  her  sought  for  a  way  of  escape, 
a  brilliant  idea  flashed  with  lightning  speed  before 
her.  It  ran,  "Don't  believe  it  — Aunt  Anne's 
made  a  mistake  for  once;  you  need  n't  own  up." 

Whence  came  that  thought,  revealing  as  it  did 
an  entirely  new  state  of  mind,  the  beginnings  of 
rebellion,  a  questioning  of  Aunt  Anne's  infallibility, 
hitherto  accepted  as  one  of  life's  fundamental 
facts,  any  one  of  which  disproved,  the  whole  uni 
verse  resolved  into  a  rabble  of  contradictions  ? 

There  is  no  need,  reader,  to  plunge  into  specula 
tion.  The  matter  can  be  simply  stated.  Rose 
doubted  the  caravan  man's  delinquency,  whatever 


7  6  The  Caravan  Man 

the  doubt  implied,  for  one  and  one  only  reason  — 
she  liked  the  caravan  man.  There  you  have  it. 

Are  you  vexed,  with  Rose,  or  the  caravan  man 
—  or  me?  Yes?  Well,  what  are  we  going  to  do 
about  it?  This  is  a  plain  and  straightforward  story, 
relating  facts,  concealing  nothing,  or  very  little, 
glossing  the  merest  trifle.  Come;  be  reasonable; 
accept  the  position.  Run  over  the  facts.  Here's  a 
charming  girl,  of  twenty  or  so,  cooped  up  in  a  large 
house  on  the  outskirts  of  a  remote  country  village, 
with  few  girls  in  the  neighbourhood  of  her  own 
class,  none  she  particularly  cared  for,  and  under 
the  surveillance  of  one  elderly  aunt  and  one  aged 
grandmother,  who  had  persuaded  themselves  that, 
for  reasons  which  shall  be  disclosed  later,  the  in 
stincts  and  free  promptings  of  the  girl's  mind  must 
be  supervised,  directed,  trained,  discouraged,  re 
pressed.  In  the  breast  of  this  young  girl  there  was 
a  wellspring  of  eager  and  laughing  interest  in  life, 
that  sought  to  send  a  bubbling  jet  of  mirth  to  joy 
the  beholder  with  its  sparkling.  The  two  older 
ladies  had  determinedly  capped  it,  put  on  a  cover 
and  clamped  it  down.  So,  cramped  in  spirit,  her 
thoughts  driven  inward  to  brood  as  no  young  girl's 
thoughts  should  be  driven,  she  lived  her  life,  full 
of  vague  longings  that  obediently  enough  she  tried 
to  suppress  as  wrong. 

And  she  had  encountered  the  caravan  man  — 
and  in  the  first  minute  of  their  meeting,  with  the 


The  Caravan  Man  77 

first  clashing  of  mutual  glances,  the  beginnings  of 
liking  had  stirred  within  her.  All  unconsciously, 
perhaps,  "Liking"  was  a  state  of  mind  that  had 
never  actually  presented  itself  to  her  among  her 
thoughts  as  a  mentally  visible  word.  But  a  power 
that  Rose  was  all  unconscious  of,  could  never  have 
comprehended,  that,  to  put  it  bluntly,  no  one  in 
this  mortal  world  has  ever  comprehended,  chatter 
about  it  as  we  may,  had  swayed  the  poise  of  her 
mind  to  one  side,  had  borne  down  ever  so  lightly 
the  even  balance  of  her  judgment  concerning  the 
caravan  man.  His  clothes  were  rough  and  dingy; 
she  liked  them  rough  and  dingy.  His  hat  was  old  — 
nice  and  old,  said  her  judgment.  He  peered  at  her 
at  times  quite  searchingly;  in  some  men  it  might 
have  seemed  an  impertinence.  She  might  quite 
easily  have  resented  it  —  but  the  scales  were  not 
longer  balanced,  and  she  accepted  his  glances  se 
renely,  and  looked  him  over  in  return.  His  voice 
pleased  her.  She  liked  his  abrupt  way  of  speaking. 
She  liked  his  caravan,  his  fire,  his  stupidity  —  of 
course  it  was  stupidity  and  not  impudence  — 
about  her  book,  the  way  he  returned  it,  his  camera, 
his  taking  photographs  ...  all  these  predilections, 
hitherto  unrecognized,  now  emerged  from  their 
lurking  places  in  the  recesses  of  her  mind,  boldly 
planted  themselves  in  her  mental  balance,  and 
brazenly  bore  down  the  scale.  She  liked  the  cara 
van  man. 


7  8  The  Caravan  Man 

She  was  quite  sure  Aunt  Anne  was  mistaken. 
She  was  sure  he  did  not  get  drunk.  Some  other 
person,  rather  like  him,  had  walked  the  Cuckleford 
road  the  night  before,  inebriated.  He  ought  to  be 
punished,  whoever  he  was.  It  was  disgraceful  to 
take  away  an  innocent  man's  character  in  that 
careless  fashion.  In  short  —  in  short  —  she  would 
contrive  to  have  her  photograph  taken,  by  the 
caravan  man,  after  all. 


CHAPTER  V 

NOW  the  facts  as  to  the  condition  of  sobriety 
or  insobriety  of  the  caravan  man  had  better 
be  stated  at  once. 

He  had  not  been  in  the  least  intoxicated  as  Aunt 
Anne  had  averred.  It  is  true  he  had  spent  the  late 
hours  of  Saturday  in  the  Pink  and  Lily,  the  thatched 
inn  with  the  September  roses  still  in  full  bloom 
about  it,  that  stood  at  the  Cuckleford  end  of  the 
common,  and  during  that  time  he  had  consumed 
a  pint  of  ale.  But  his  prolonged  stay  had  been 
brought  about  solely  by  a  very  human  interest  in 
the  society  the  inn  afforded,  and  a  natural  desire 
to  see  all  there  was  of  the  fun. 

When  first  he  entered  on  the  Saturday  evening 
he  found  sitting  disposed  on  the  three  benches  of 
the  low-ceilinged  room  a  collection  of  eight  aborig 
ines  of  Cuckleford.  They  were  an  assorted  lot,  of 
varying  ages  and  mode  of  face-adornment.  Some 
had  beards,  some  mustaches  only,  some  side- 
whiskers  ;  one  that  most  chic  of  all  arrangements  in 
hair,  a  clean-shaven  face  with  a  bushy  fringe  of 
whisker  running  in  one  undisturbed  sweep  from 
ear  to  ear  under  the  chin.  All  who  shaved  at  all 
needed  shaving  badly.  The  Cuckleford  custom 
was  shave  reg'lar  every  Sunday  morning.  They 


8  o  The  Caravan  Man 

were  dressed  in  tweeds,  whipcord,  corduroy. 
Smocks,  gaiters,  hats,  offered  proof  of  independ 
ence  in  taste  as  regards  dress.  But  they  bore  this 
likeness  to  each  other.  Each  man  grasped  in  his 
hand  —  usually  his  right  —  a  pewter  pot,  in  which 
lay  from  a  quarter  of  an  inch  to  an  inch  of  the 
Pink  and  Lily  ale,  all  that  remained  unconsumed 
of  the  pot  boldly  ordered  on  entry  and  carefully 
nursed  throughout  the  ensuing  hour.  Each  pot 
held  a  pint.  One  man,  one  hour,  one  pot  (pot 
equalling  pint).  This  was  the  formula  for  the  Pink 
and  Lily,  and  was  strictly  adhered  to  under  ordi 
nary  circumstances.  To  each  of  the  eight  custom 
ers  it  occurred  simultaneously  that  the  coming  of 
the  caravan  man  might  constitute  an  extraordi 
nary  circumstance.  Without  building  too  much  on 
it  they  permitted  themselves  to  —  shall  we  say, 
hope? — no,  speculate. 

On  his  entry  they  stopped  talking  as  one  man, 
and  stared  at  him  with  blank,  impassive  scrutiny. 
He  was  aware  of  it,  but  bore  himself  as  a  man  well 
used  to  the  ways  of  Pinks  and  Lilys,  Cocks  and 
Bottles,  Loads  of  Hay  and  such-like  country-houses 
of  refreshment;  that  is  to  say,  he  ignored  all  there 
save  Mrs.  Whatley  who  kept  the  alehouse.  To 
her  he  offered  greeting  and  custom  in  two  sen 
tences  and  one  breath.  "Evening,  missis.  A  pot, 
please." 

So  far,  correct.    The  ale  was  drawn,  the  pot 


The  Caravan  Man  8 1 

placed  on  the  little  counter.  The  newcomer  put 
his  hand  in  his  pocket  to  pay.  All  eyes  were  on 
him.  The  psychical  moment  was  come.  He  either 
would  or  he  would  n't.  He  did. 

Addressing  the  house  —  which  accorded  him  a 
courteous  hearing  —  he  put  the  question  they  had 
all  strained  ears  to  catch. 

"Any  of  you  gentlemen  care  to  fill  up?" 

Eight  pots,  held  in  eight  right  hands,  rose  simul 
taneously  to  eight  mouths,  tipped  rims,  turned 
bottom  upwards  ceilingwards,  lingered,  lowered 
again.  Eight  men  rose  and  in  beautiful  unison 
stepped  to  the  counter,  placed  each  his  empty  pot 
down  gently,  and  all  together  cried,  "I  don't  care 
if  I  do.  It's  a  fine  evenin',  mester." 

The  "ayes"  had  it. 

Each  man  received  his  pot,  full,  waited  while 
the  caravan  man  paid,  two  good  shillings  and  three 
pence,  then  as,  pot  in  hand,  he  faced  them  and 
nodded,  each  man  lifted  his  pot,  remarked,  "Good 
'ealth,  mester,"  and  took  a  fair  drink,  down  to 
somewhere  near  the  halfway  mark,  sat  down,  low 
ered  pot  to  thigh  and  said,  "Ah!" 

Footing  was  established.  He  was  of  their  com 
pany  for  that  evening. 

The  time  passed  as  time  passes  in  such  places. 
A  little  drinking  and  a  good  deal  of  talking.  Good- 
fellowship,  no  more  and  no  less  genuine  than  you 
might  find  among  eight  acquaintances  in  more 


8  2  The  Caravan  Man 

luxurious  surroundings  than  the  alehouse  afforded. 
Some  scandal,  some  philosophy.  A  wasted  even 
ing,  one  may  concede  —  and  yet,  little  harm,  and 
even  some  good.  Here  and  there  a  man  might  be 
inclined  to  be  too  outspoken  as  his  consumption 
of  ale  increased.  He  was  gravely  rebuked.  The 
sense  of  the  meeting  was  against  argumentative- 
ness  and  personalities.  Decorum  was  inculcated. 
Manners  maketh  man;  the  Pink  and  Lily  stood  for 
reasonable  behaviour. 

Any  humour  that  was  there  was  unintentional. 
The  caravan  man,  who  seemed  to  find  some,  had 
doubtless  his  own  point  of  view.  To  some  of  the 
talk,  deadly  serious,  he  listened,  as  the  company 
noted,  as  if  there  was  something  funny  about  it. 
There  was  the  matter  of  young  Alf  Western,  and 
what  his  end  would  be.  Nothing  definite  suggested, 
but  you  might  infer  something  bad,  probably  ca 
tastrophic. 

Young  Alf  Western  was  too  smart  for  Cuckle- 
ford,  and  Cuckleford  was  relieved  to  feel  that  it 
had  probably  seen  the  back  of  him  for  good.  Teddy 
Parker's  peas  had  been  a  dreadful  business.  Teddy 
Parker,  the  caravan  man  learnt,  was  the  oldest 
hedger-and-ditcher  round  these  'ere  parts.  He  was 
also,  beyond  all  question,  the  champion  pea- 
grower.  Year  by  year,  regularly,  he  swept  the 
board  at  all  the  local  flower  and  vegetable  shows 
with  an  unrivalled  display  of  peas.  His  supremacy 


The  Caravan  Man  8  3 

was  confessed  with  no  touch  of  jealousy,  yet  the 
caravan  man  could  surmise  that  under  the  strain 
of  his  laurels  there  had  developed  in  Ted  Parker 
an  undue  pride  of  bearing.  And  young  Alf  Western 
had  took  him  down  something  cruel. 

The  two  had  met  and  clashed  over  those  peas. 
Young  Alf  Western  had  openly  and  publicly  de 
rided  Parker's  peas.  Good  peas,  he  admitted,  but 
other  people  could  grow  good  peas,  and  a  shaking- 
up  was  more  than  likely  in  store  for  Teddy  Parker, 
and  that  very  season.  Teddy  Parker  had  been 
dignified,  terse,  and  irritating.  The  matter  passed 
off. 

But  only  last  Saturday  night,  at  this  very  same 
Pink  and  Lily,  the  company  being  assembled,  with 
them  Teddy  Parker,  young  Alf  Western  had  ap 
peared  again,  and  deliberately  (as  was  now  seen) 
led  the  talk  onto  Parker's  peas.  And  there  had 
been  a  wrangle  between  him  and  Parker.  And 
Parker,  stung  by  Alf  Western's  nimble  wit  and 
sarcasmism,  had  finally  attempted  to  crush  all 
opposition  by  offering  to  back  the  merits  of  his 
peas  with  money.  "There  y'  are,  the's  my  five 
shillin's,  any  fair  bet  you  likes."  And  after  further 
heated  discussion  Alf  Western  had  put  up  five 
shillin's,  and  a  wager  was  made  as  follows:  — 

Young  Alf  Western  might  take  all  Cuckleford 
in  his  purview  and  select  twenty  pea-pods  there 
from,  the  finest  he  could  pick,  from  any  garden,1 


84  The  Caravan  Man 

or  as  many  gardens  as  he  chose,  one  from  each  if 
he  liked,  and  should  produce  them  before  the 
assembled  judges  at  the  Pink  and  Lily.  And  Teddy 
Parker  would  then  undertake  to  go  to  his  garden 
and  there  and  then,  from  his  own  pea-patch,  would 
pick  twenty  of  his  fairest  pods  and  match  them 
against  young  Alf  Western's  selection.  A  generous 
bet  on  Teddy  Parker's  part,  yet,  knowing  the  man's 
peas,  the  company  felt  sorry  for  young  Alf  Western. 

He  rejected  pity.  More,  his  conduct  invited  re 
buke.  For,  ostentatiously  drinking  his  beer,  he 
announced  that  he  had  already,  in  his  pocket, 
twenty  pea-pods,  Cuckleford-grown,  and  Teddy 
Parker  might  hurry  up  and  cull  his  champions. 

And  Teddy  Parker  went  off  to  get  a  lantern  and 
do  so,  with  half  the  company,  and  young  Alf 
Western  remained  behind  and  skilfully  drew  no 
less  than  three  other  bets  from  the  remaining  com 
pany,  one  of  five  shillings  and  two  of  half-a-crown, 
and  saw  the  money  put  up,  and  covered  it. 

And  then  Teddy  Parker  came  back  and  showed 
his  peas.  And  young  Alf  Western  pulled  his  out 
of  his  jacket  pocket,  and  the  two  lots  were  exam 
ined.  And,  incredible  but  true,  young  Alf  West 
ern  won.  Seventeen  of  his  twenty  pods  were  ad 
judged  to  be  superior  to  anything  in  the  Parker 
group. 

The  bets  were  paid,  and  young  Alf  Western 
offered  his  twenty  pods  to  Teddy  Parker,  who  de- 


The  Caravan  Man  8  5 

clined  them;  and  then  young  Alf  Western  left  the 
Pink  and  Lily.  As  he  opened  the  door,  the  warmint 
said,  "Night,  all.  Ted,  know  whose  garden  I  got 
them  peas  out  of?"  And  Parker  only  stared,  hav 
ing  a  vague  idea  of  what  was  coming;  and  young 
Alf  Western,  grinning,  had  said,  "Yourn!"  and 
gone  out  immediately. 

Thank  Heaven  he  had  now  gone  from  Cuckle- 
ford  to  London,  which  was  the  natural  end  of  such 
men  as  he.  Nothing  yet  had  transpired  as  to  what 
had  happened  to  London,  but  news  would  trickle 
through  soon. 

With  such  stories,  told  in  deadly  earnest,  and  the 
occasional  emptying  of  pots,  the  time  slipped  by. 
Admittedly  an  unedifying  evening,  and  at  its  ter 
mination,  when  Mrs.  Whatley  announced  the  time 
with,  "  Come,  all  you  men,"  more  than  two  or  three 
of  those  assembled  there  were  none  too  steady  on 
their  feet  as  they  turned  out  into  the  rather  chilly 
night,  and  the  now  darkened  door  closed  behind 
them. 

It  was  then  that  the  caravan  man,  all  uncon 
sciously  and  inspired  by  nothing  more  intoxicating 
than  the  pure  milk  of  human  kindness,  laid  himself 
open  to  the  imputation  Aunt  Anne  had  flung  at  him 
in  Rose's  hearing. 

One  pair  of  footsteps  in  particular  was  unsteady, 
inclined,  in  fact,  to  meander  very  vaguely  indeed 
about  the  road.  Enquiry  told  the  caravan  man 


86  .    The  Caravan  Man 

that  their  owner  lived  at  Watercreese  Farm,  down 
by  the  canal,  this  side  of  Ouseton,  and  thereupon 
the  caravan  man  had  decided  to  give  them  his 
friendly  assistance  and  counsel.  Sordid,  this  epi 
sode?  Well  —  doubtless  it  would  have  been  easier 
and  more  pleasant  to  stroll  home  caravanwards 
under  the  stars,  hands  in  pockets,  pipe  in  mouth, 
all  unaccompanied,  sufficient  of  rustic  humour  for 
the  occasion.  The  caravan  man  did  not  exactly 
make  his  offer  —  accepted  —  for  his  own  increase 
of  pleasure. 

The  further  help  that  was  volunteered  by  two 
other  members  of  the  group  was  not  easily  declined 
or  easily  utilized.  For  here  again  in  bearing  and 
speech  the  less  commendable  influences  of  the  Pink 
and  Lily  were  plain  to  be  seen.  The  night  air,  too, 
had  its  effect.  The  caravan  man  soon  found  him 
self  in  a  position  of  irksome  responsibility.  To  put 
it  plainly,  he  found  himself  with  a  devil  of  a  job 
on  his  hands.  His  close  companions  —  all  arms 
were  linked  —  were  aware  of  nothing  but  the  hap 
piness  of  living  in  that  sociable  hour,  and  they 
became  hilarious,  they  voiced  their  high  spirits  in 
song,  they  danced  —  or  thought  they  did  .  .  . 

When  Aunt  Anne  drove  home  near  midnight, 
the  carriage  swerved  perforce  to  avoid  the  group 
of  four  men  who  swayed  across  the  road  from  side 
to  side,  close-linked,  laughing,  happy,  tuneful, 
corybantic;  one  of  them  was  the  caravan  man,  and 


The  Caravan  Man  8  7 

Aunt  Anne,  who  recognized  him  by  the  light  of 
one  of  the  lamps,  was  all  unaware  that  he  alone 
was  silent,  grave,  perspiring  in  the  effort  to  per 
suade,  assist,  and  compel  the  other  three  men  to 
keep  to  something  of  a  reasonable  homeward  way. 


CHAPTER  VI 

HAVING  thus  demonstrated  that  instinct  is 
sometimes  superior  to  knowledge  —  Rose's 
surmise  being  much  nearer  the  truth  than  Aunt 
Anne's  conclusions  —  let  us  examine  the  dealings 
of  fate  with  Rose,  and  the  caravan  man,  and  the 
photograph. 

Fate  behaved  extremely  well  —  or  extremely 
badly,  you  may  say.  It  depends  on  how  your  sym 
pathies  run.  Aunt  Anne  went  over  to  spend  the 
day  at  the  house  of  her  great  friend,  Mrs.  Stick- 
ford,  at  Stickfordleigh.  She  was  to  meet  there  Mr. 
Ickledew,  the  great  Woman's  Rights  leader.  He 
was  an  exhilarating  advocate,  and  fought  for 
woman's  rights  up  to  the  hilt.  You  would  have 
thought,  if  you  had  heard  him,  that  he  was  a 
deeply  wronged  woman.  Go  and  hear  him,  if  you 
ever  get  the  chance.  You  will  be  delighted. 

In  the  evening,  after  dinner,  came  the  news  that 
Aunt  Anne  had  slipped  going  up  the  steps  of  Stick 
fordleigh  House,  and  sprained  her  ankle  badly. 
"Oh,  dear!"  said  Granny,  and  Rose  said,  "Oh, 
dear!"  too,  but  in  her  inmost  heart  she  felt  a  great 
glowing  conviction  that  the  way  was  being  made 
clear  for  her  photograph. 

And  it  was.   Granny  and  she  drove  over  next 


The  Caravan  Man  8  9 

morning,  and  found  Aunt  Anne  reclining  on  a 
couch.  Mrs.  Stickford  and  she  were  really  great 
friends,  and  Aunt  Anne  knew  that  she  was  being 
genuinely  pressed  to  stay  till  the  foot  was  well.  It 
would  have  been  perfectly  easy  to  get  her  down 
stairs  and  into  the  Priory  carriage,  but,  after  all, 
why  not  stay  where  she  was  ? 

And  Granny,  too;  Mrs.  Stickford  was  hospitality 
itself.  Would  she  stay?  Granny  did  n't  think  so  — 
then  Rose?  Rose  blenched,  but  Aunt  Anne  stopped 
that.  So  it  was  arranged  that  Rose  should  stay  at 
the  Priory,  and  Granny  would  run  over  in  the 
carriage  to  see  Aunt  Anne  nearly  every  day,  and 
stay  the  night  or  not  just  as  she  felt  inclined. 

Could  anything  be  happier?  Rose  asked  her 
self  that;  yet  she  thought  of  Aunt  Anne's  ankle, 
and  wondered  if  she,  Rose,  was  an  out-and-out 
hussy. 

Granny  went  off  next  day,  and  just  before  she 
went  decided  that  that  night,  at  any  rate,  she  would 
stay  at  Stickfordleigh  House. 

"Shall  I  come,  too,  Granny?" 

"I  think  not,  Rose.  Give  an  eye  to  the  servants 
—  don't  let  Mary  go  anywhere  near  the  caravan." 

"I  won't,  Granny." 

"And  if  I'm  not  home  to-morrow  night,  you'll 
be  all  right,  dear?" 

"Perfectly,  Granny.  You  forget  I'm  growing 
up." 


90  The  Caravan  Man 

"Grow  up  good,  dear,  like  your  Aunt  Anne," 
said  Granny,  as  she  kissed  her  with  real  tenderness. 
Away  went  the  carriage. 

This  was  at  half-past  ten  on  the  Wednesday 
morning.  Rose  did  some  sewing.  She  decided  that 
among  other  things  to  be  done  that  week,  if  oppor 
tunity  offered,  she  must  really  see  if  she  could 
squeeze  time  to  have  her  photograph  taken. 

At  eleven  o'clock  she  wondered  if  she  could  find 
time  that  afternoon.  At  half-past  eleven  —  at  half- 
past  eleven  she  was  at  the  caravan. 

The  caravan  man  was  not  immediately  visible. 
All  was  quiet  in  the  caravan,  but  as  Rose  looked 
about  her  he  appeared  up  the  bank  from  the  pond, 
fishing-rod  in  hand. 

He  looked  pleased  when  he  saw  Rose.  "Good* 
morning,"  he  said,  and  stood  the  rod  up  by  the 
caravan  side. 

"Good-morning,"  said  Rose.  "I  came  across  — 
I  thought  perhaps  you  might  be  able  to  take  my 
photograph." 

A  look  of  undeniable  pleasure  crossed  his  face. 

"Rather!  That  is  to  say,  certainly.  This  morn 
ing?  Now?" 

"If  you  could." 

"Decidedly."  His  "decidedly"  was  very  de 
cided.  "  Won't  you  sit  down  ? "  he  said,  and  waved 
her  towards  where  one  of  the  beech-tree  roots 
offered  a  natural  seat. 


The  Caravan  Man  9 1 

Rose  sat  down,  and  he  ran  into  his  caravan.  Out 
he  came  again  with  his  camera,  and  proceeded  to 
adjust  its  long,  weak-looking  legs.  He  went  up 
the  steps  again,  said,  "Excuse  me  a  minute,"  went 
inside  and  closed  the  caravan  door.  Rose  saw 
some  red  blinds  pulled  down  over  the  windows  at 
the  end  of  the  caravan,  and  waited  for  a  minute 
or  two,  when  he  came  out  with  three  darkslides, 
which  he  put  down  in  the  shade  and  covered  over 
with  a  coat. 

"You  have  n't  thought  exactly  what  pose  you 
would  like?"  he  asked,  surveying  her  steadily. 

"No,"  she  said. 

"Well,  we  must  make  up  our  minds  to  get  the 
best."  Rose  agreed.  "And  that's  not  the  easiest 
matter  in  the  world."  "No?"  By  no  means,  he 
assured  her.  He  explained  himself.  He  explained 
a  good  many  things  as  he  went  about,  dragging  the 
spidery-legged  camera  with  him,  suggesting  frames, 
now  round,  now  oblong,  now  square,  with  his 
hands,  and  peering  at  her  through  the  opening.  A 
face,  to  an  intimate  acquaintance,  might  give  an 
altogether  different  impression  from  that  which  a 
stranger  might  gather.  Had  n't  she  noticed  that? 
No?  Surely  she  had  met  with  cases  where,  for 
instance,  children  were  declared  by  a  new  acquaint 
ance  to  resemble  a  parent,  where  those  who  knew 
them  well  saw  no  likeness.  And  then,  too,  plain 
faces  lost  their  ugliness  with  intimacy,  and, 


9  2  The  Caravan  Man 

strangely  enough,  beauties  were  apt  to  lose  their 
freshness,  though  not  perhaps  their  charm,  if  you 
saw  them  often. 

"Your  face,  for  instance,  to  any  one  who  knows 
you  well,  sees  you  often,  might  appear  quite"  — 
Rose  was  startled.  Was  he  going  to  say  "plain"  or 
"  beautiful "  ?  And  which  would  be  complimentary  ? 
—  "different  from  what  I  see  it,"  he  ended. 

Rose  nearly  asked  him,  "How  do  you  see  it?" 
She  did  really  commence  "How  — "  but  concluded 
deftly  with  "  stra  nge ! " 

He  decided  on  a  profile,  and  got  Rose  to  adjust 
her  seat.  He  was  extremely  careful  and  particular 
in  the  smallest  details.  Rose  felt  that  if  care  could 
make  a  good  photograph,  she  was  going  to  come 
out  well.  Very  respectfully  he  guided  her,  actually, 
once  or  twice,  touched  her  head.  "May  I?  — 
That's  it."  Then  he  was  a  long  time  under  the 
voluminous  folds  of  a  black  cloth  which  he  spread 
over  the  camera  and  himself,  and  took  more  time 
shifting  the  camera  about. 

"Could  you  keep  like  that,  do  you  think?"  he 
asked,  emerging. 

"Yes,"  said  Rose. 

"You  can  talk,  if  you  don't  shift  your  head," 
he  said,  and  got  one  of  the  darkslides  out  from 
under  his  coat. 

He  had  been  so  earnest  in  his  work  that  Rose  felt 
it  almost  incumbent  on  her  to  carry  on  the  con- 


The  Caravan  Man  93 

versation.  "It's  a  beautiful  morning,  isn't  it?" 
she  offered. 

"Rather,"  he  said.  "And  is  n't  this  a  glorious 
bit  of  common  —  just  now,  I  mean,  with  the  leaves 
turning?" 

"And  the  pond,"  said  Rose. 

"Yes.  This  patch  of  water  *  makes'  the  view  so. 
Do  you  often  come  here,  or  are  you,  like  most  peo 
ple,  so  used  to  a  pretty  view  that  you  lose  its 
charm?" 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Rose.  "I  love  this  spot,  and  I 
often  come  here." 

"Do  you?  I  have  n't  seen  you." 

"No;  well,  you  — "  .She  stopped.  She  had  been 
going  to  say  something  awkward. 

"  I  'm  afraid  I  'm  driving  you  away." 

"Not  in  the  least,"  murmured  Rose,  and  felt 
untruthful. 

"Then  perhaps  I  may  see  you  here  sometimes?" 

This  would  not  do.  Rose  merely  glimmered 
something  indistinct. 

He  adjusted  her  head  again,  and  got  ready  to 
take  off  the  lens  cap.  "Quite  still,  please." 

Rose,  keeping  her  head  still,  suddenly  inter 
rupted.  "May  I  speak?" 

He  took  his  hand  down  from  the  lens.  "Cer 
tainly." 

"My  hair?"  said  Rose.  "Is  it  all  right?" 

"I  think  so — it  looks  splendid,"  he  answered, 


94  The  Caravan  Man 

with  such  enthusiasm  that  Rose  felt  embarrassed. 
"Perhaps,  after  all,  you'd  like  to  look  in  a  glass?" 

"  I  should,"  said  Rose. 

So,  abandoning  the  photography  for  the  mo 
ment,  he  went  into  his  caravan  and  brought  out  — 
Rose,  polite  girl  as  she  was,  could  scarcely  help 
laughing.  It  was  just  an  irregular  bit  of  mirror, 
unframed,  no  bigger  than  the  palm  of  his  hand. 
"Manage  with  this?"  he  asked. 

Rose  took  it,  and  "managed,"  adjusted  a  pin  or 
two,  then  gave  him  back  the  glass.  He  looked  her 
over  carefully  as  he  took  it.  Rose  hoped  it  looked 
as  nice  as  she  thought  it  did. 

So  he  took  that  photograph,  and  began  another. 
It  was  a  leisurely  business,  with  frequent  chats, 
always  interesting,  but,  Rose  saw  later,  apt  to 
diverge  a  good  deal  from  the  matter  in  hand.  This 
second  photograph  was  still  a  profile,  with  her 
head  lowered  this  time,  and  he  followed  it  with  a 
three-quarters  face. 

Then,  to  Rose's  astonishment,  it  struck  one.  She 
jumped  up.  "One?"  she  said. 

He  looked  at  his  wrist-watch.  "One,  exactly." 

"I  must  go  in,"  she  said. 

"I  hope  I'm  not  ruining  your  lunch?"  he  said 
politely. 

"Not  at  all.  It's  cold.  But  I  had  no  idea  the 
time  had  gone  so."  She  felt  sorry  he  had  got  only 
three  views  of  her.  She  would  have  liked  the  dozen. 


The  Caravan  Man  95 

"It's  a  lengthy  matter,  you  know,  making  a 
really  good  photograph.  I  hope  you  '11  forgive  my 
taking  rather  a  long  time  over  yours,"  he  apolo 
gized. 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Rose.  "I  should  like  them 
nicely  done." 

"Oh,  they  shall  be  nice.  How  long  will  you  be 
over  lunch?" 

Rose  started.  She  had  not  thought  of  contriving 
more  than  one  sitting.  "I  don't  quite  see — "  she 
began. 

"It's  an  exceptionally  favourable  day,"  he  as 
sured  her.  "The  light  this  afternoon  will  be  even 
better  than  this  morning." 

Rose  wondered  if  she  could  manage  it  —  saw 
that  she  could,  perhaps  —  decided  that  she  would. 
"I  could  be  back  by  two." 

"  Capital.  I  '11  cook  my  kipper  and  get  it  out  of 
the  way,  and  be  ready." 

Rose  nodded  and  went  home.  She  was  laughing. 
"Cook  my  kipper"!  Why  not?  She  had  a  mental 
image  of  him  crouched  over  his  fire,  with  the  fish 
in  a  frying-pan,  or  possibly  on  a  fork  —  somehow 
it  gave  her  a  friendly  feeling  towards  him.  It 
was  n't  much  of  a  lunch,  though.  Would  it  be 
right  or  not  to  offer  to  supplement  it?  Or,  even, 
something  to  drink  —  a  bottle  of  ale?  No  (with  a 
momentary  shrinking),  that  incident  of  the  Cuckle- 
ford  road,  on  Saturday  night! —  It  was  n't  true, 


96  The  Caravan  Man 

but  —  but,  all  the  same,  don't  put  temptation  in 
his  way. 

So  she  had  lunch  at  the  Priory,  and  the  caravan 
man  had  his  at  the  caravan  —  it  was  n't  kipper  at 
all ;  it  was  quite  a  comfortable  steak  —  and  soon 
after  two  she  was  back  at  the  caravan. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  business  of  the  afternoon  resembled 
closely  that  of  the  morning.  Rose  and  the 
caravan  man  certainly  got  on  well.  Their  con 
versation  roved  about  a  good  deal,  but  it  seldom 
drooped.  She  found  herself  insensibly  led  into 
something  like  intimate  talk.  She  chattered  about 
Ouseton,  the  Priory,  Granny,  Aunt  Anne,  herself. 
And  all  the  while  she  knew  he  was  taking  the  great 
est  pains  about  her  portrait.  He  posed  her  with 
the  greatest  care,  making  minute  adjustments  in 
her  position,  altering  the  poise  of  her  head,  getting 
her  once  to  change  the  simple  arrangement  of  her 
hair.  Once  or  twice  she  seemed  suddenly  to  realize 
the  strangeness,  to  her,  of  her  situation,  spending 
a  whole  day  in  intimate  association  with  a  strange 
man.  But  even  though  it  seemed  almost  a  duty  to 
have  some  qualms,  she  found  herself  unable  to 
conjure  up  anything  more  than  a  momentary,  per 
functory  timidity.  He  did  everything  so  naturally 
and  simply. 

Once  he  himself  apologized  for  allowing  or  in 
ducing  their  conversation  to  flow  so  unrestrainedly, 
but  he  explained  that  it  was  part  of  the  craft  of  a 
photographer  to  get  a  sitter  to  talk,  not  too  stren 
uously,  on  any  topic  of  interest. 


98  The  Caravan  Man 

A  most  intelligent  photographer,  thought  Rose, 
and  then  in  her  mind  the  question  shaped,  why 
was  he  not  successful?  Obviously  he  could  n't  be. 
Five  shillings  a  dozen  —  that  was  no  price  for  a 
successful  photographer.  Mr,  Bapkin,  who  was  n't 
anything  much  at  taking  pictures,  charged  a  guinea 
a  dozen.  And  then,  this  sort  of  life,  gipsyish,  really 
homeless  —  it  meant  failure,  surely. 

She  put  no  question  to  him,  yet  he  felt  himself 
drawn  to  explain.  "I'm  new  to  this  work,"  he 
said.  "Don't  think  I  shan't  do  your  pictures  all 
right,  but  I  'm  something  of  a  novice.  Still,  before 
I  took  this  up,  I  was  a  painter." 

"I  suppose  this  is  a  better  trade  than  that?"  she 
said. 

He  was  under  the  cloth,  moving  about,  just 
then. 

He  suddenly  pulled  up,  came  out  from  under  the 
cloth  and  looked  at  her.  "I  beg  your  pardon?"  he 
said. 

"Perhaps  I  'm  wrong,"  said  Rose;  "and  of  course 
you've  got  to  learn  all  about  it.  But  I  suppose, 
when  you  really  grow  competent — no,  not  that" 
(hastily)  —  "  confident,  I  mean,  you  could  make 
this  a  more  profitable  occupation."  He  still  looked 
questioningly  at  her.  Had  she  made  a  mistake? 
"But  perhaps  you  were  a  decorator  as  well?" 

He  suddenly  dived  under  the  cloth  again  and  did 
not  speak  for  some  seconds.  Then:  "Yes,  I've 


The  Caravan  Man  99 

done  a  bit  of  decorative  work  in  my  time,  but  not 
much."  He  worked  the  camera  about.  "And  of 
course  there's  the  plumbing.  There's  good  money 
in  that." 

"What  made  you  give  it  up  and  take  to  this?" 
she  asked. 

He  lifted  the  cloth  and  looked  gravely  at  her. 
"Do  you  want  any  pipes  mended  at  the  Priory?" 

"I  don't  think  so.  Why?" 

"Get  them  done."  He  pulled  out  the  slide. 
"  Still,  please."  She  sat  rigid,  he  took  off  the  cap, 
replaced  it,  turned  the  slide.  "In  a  few  months' 
time  there  will  be  no  more  plumbing,  no  more 
pipes,  in  England." 

"Whyever  not?" 

"Shortage  of  solder.  The  solder  mines  are  giv 
ing  out .  .  .  But  it  was  n't  for  that  I  gave  up." 

"Perhaps  you  were  ill,  and  needed  an  outdoor 
life?" 

"That's  it." 

"What  was  the  matter  with  you?  Lead  poison- 
ing?" 

"Yes.  And  wrist-drop,  and  painter's  colic,  and 
plumber's  blue-gum,  and  —  and  decorator's  jaun 
dice.  And  locomotor  ataxia." 

"I've  heard  of  that,"  said  Rose.  "What  is  it?" 

"Awful.  And  almost  incurable.  Do  you  know 
what  to  do  if  a  locomotor  ataxia?  Why — run. 
It's  your  only  chance." 


ioo  The  Caravan  Man 

She  felt  bewildered,  but  he  was  under  the  cloth 
again. 

He  got  nine  more  negatives  of  her  that  after 
noon,  between  lunch  and  half-past  six.  She  missed 
her  tea,  but  later  she  dared  not  stop.  In  fact,  she 
began  to  get  into  a  bit  of  a  panic.  Granny  might 
be  home. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Granny  came  home,  in  the 
Stickfordleigh  carriage,  not  ten  minutes  later.  She 
only  drove  over  to  see  that  Rose  was  all  right,  the 
Priory  where  she  had  left  it  that  morning,  and  to 
get  something  for  Aunt  Anne.  She  would  drive 
back  to  the  Stickfords'  to  dinner  and  spend  the 
night. 

"Is  everything  all  right,  Rose?"  she  asked. 

"Quite,  Granny." 

"Where  is  Mary?" 

"This  was  her  afternoon  off.  She  went  directly 
after  lunch." 

"Oh,  yes.  I  hope  she  has  n't  been  over  to  that 


caravan." 


"  She  has  n't.  I  'm  sure,"  said  Rose.  Deplorable. 
Here  went  duty  and  opportunity  hand  in  hand. 
She  knew  it  —  and  said  not  a  word. 

Her  conscience  got  busy  with  her  that  night  as 
soon  as  her  head  was  on  the  pillow.  She  found  her 
self  presenting  it  with  ingenious  yet  unworthy 
excuses.  "  I  'm  only  doing  it  for  a  surprise  for  —  for 
Aunt  Anne.  I  know  she'd  like  a  new  photograph 


The  Caravan  Man  i  o  i 

of  me."  "Now,  look  here,"  began  Conscience;  but 
she  would  not  look.  Indeed,  she  shut  her  eyes  and 
went  to  sleep,  unconvicted. 

Next  morning,  Rose,  breakfasting  by  herself, 
chose  to  sit  in  her  bedroom  awhile  to  do  some  writ 
ing.  It  was  a  pleasant  room.  She  had  written  in  it 
before  —  once.  Seated  there  she  had  a  beautiful 
view  of  the  common.  The  caravan  also  was  an 
object  of  interest  in  the  neighbourhood. 

She  recalled  naturally  her  occupation  of  the 
previous  afternoon,  and  hoped  that  Saturday 
would  bring  her  photographs  as  excellent  as  she 
imagined  they  would  be.  He  had  taken  so  much 
trouble.  When  one  reflected  how  modern  work  of 
every  kind  was  scamped  —  Aunt  Anne  often  said 
so  —  it  was  pleasant  to  have  given  a  commission 
of  this  kind  to  a  man  so  conscientiously  devoted  to 
his  craft.  Saturday,  she  had  no  doubt,  would  show 
results  worth  his  earnest  endeavour. 

She  confessed  that  she  was  impatient  for  Satur 
day.  Saturday  morning,  no  doubt.  Ouseton,  as  is 
the  custom  of  country  villages,  became  thronged 
on  Saturday  afternoons  and  evenings,  and  no  doubt 
the  caravan  man  would  be  there.  He  would  there 
fore  expect  her  to  call  on  Saturday  morning;  as 
likely  to  be  early  as  late.  So  that  —  so  that  — 
obviously  he  would  have  the  prints  ready  on 
Friday  evening,  or,  more  likely,  Friday  afternoon. 
She  knew  that  prints  were  made  in  sunlight,  the 


i  o  2  The  Caravan  Man 

brighter  the  better.  So  that  really,  if  she  called  on 
Friday  afternoon,  say,  after  tea  —  before  tea  was 
perhaps  a  little  too  early  —  she  could  probably  see 
what  her  prints  looked  like. 

She  felt  great  confidence  in  the  caravan  man. 
He  had  said  that  he  could  judge  from  the  negatives 
whether  her  prints  would  be  good  enough,  so  that 
really  she  could  satisfy  her  mind  on  the  Friday 
morning.  Yes,  Friday  morning. 

Friday  morning?  But  he  developed  the  things  at 
night.  He  had  said  so.  Just  then,  happening  to 
glance  out  of  the  window,  she  caught  a  glimpse  of 
the  man  himself.  She  could,  as  it  happened,  spy 
through  a  sort  of  tunnel  through  the  trees,  and 
there  he  was,  lying  down,  luxuriously.  Smoking, 
no  doubt. 

Now  she  remembered  that  he  had  said  he  would 
develop  the  plates  that  night  —  last  night.  They 
were  done,  then.  At  that  very  moment  he  was  in  a 
position  to  tell  her  whether  his  and  her  hopes  were 
justified.  No  doubt  everything  was  quite  all  right. 
But  supposing  —  just  supposing  they  were  not?  — 
Mr.  Bapkin  once  had  to  ask  her  to  sit  again.  How 
silly  she  would  feel  if  she  went  there  on  Friday 
(no,  Saturday),  and  discovered  that  he  had  failed! 
Failure,  announced  now,  could  be  remedied.  She 
could  sit  again.  Put  off  learning  how  things  stood, 
and  she  might  never  get  the  chance. 

This  young  girl  acted  with  a  decision  older  people 


The  Caravan  Man  103 

might  well  copy.  Did  she  halt  and  hesitate,  delay 
ing  action  from  sheer  inability  to  move,  letting 
inertia  and  timidity  overmaster  initiative?  No. 

She  went  over  to  the  caravan. 

She  arrived  there  at  a  quarter  past  eleven. 

Those  with  a  sense  of  exactitude  in  time  may 
note  that  that  was  precisely  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
earlier  than  her  visit  of  the  previous  day. 

She  had  not  even  waited  to  put  on  her  tam-o'- 
shanter. 

The  caravan  man  jumped  up  when  she  came. 
"Well?"  she  said.  "Are  the  negatives  all  right?" 

He  looked  at  her  uncomfortably.  He  had  to 
choose  the  words  in  which  to  convey  his  answer  to 
her  question.  He  dropped  his  eyes,  knocked  his 
pipe  out  on  his  hand,  put  it  in  his  pocket.  A  dread 
began  to  steal  across  her  spirits.  She  looked  anx 
iously  at  him. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said.  "I  hardly  know  how  to 
tell  you.  Don't  blame  me,  but —  something  went 
wrong  with  the  developer — " 

"And  what  happened?" 

He  got  the  word  out,  the  one  word  she  had 
dreaded  to  hear. 

"Spoilt!" 

"All?" 

"Every  one." 

She  felt  for  him.  In  his  voice  was  a  bitterness 
he  strove  in  vain  to  conceal.  He  had  been  so  buoy- 


IO4  The  Caravan  Man 

ant,  so  confident;  he  had  worked  so  hard,  taken 
such  pains,  such  a  long,  long  time  over  her  —  and 
now  — 

She  must  say  something.  What  was  it  —  the 
right  word?  the  right  tone?  — 

She  looked  at  him  as  he  stood  there,  downcast, 
depressed. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "Pm  so  glad  I  came  across." 

He  looked  up,  a  glad  light  in  his  eyes.  "Are 
you?"  he  said.  "Are  you  really?  So  am  I." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

ONE  morning,  about  a  week  later,  up  the  pack- 
horse  track,  across  the  main  road,  and  onto 
the  common  walked  a  stout,  comfortable-looking 
man,  a  large,  fat-faced,  fat-bellied  man,  who  so 
unexpectedly  and  decidedly  protruded  beneath  the 
waist  that  he  looked  as  if  he  had  inadvertently 
swallowed  a  football,  thoroughly  well  blown-out, 
at  some  previous  time,  and  had  followed  expert 
advice  as  to  the  inadvisability  of  attempting  its 
removal. 

He  wore  a  blue  serge  suit,  very  comfortably  cut, 
and  yet  it  was  his  custom,  whenever  decent  oppor 
tunity  offered,  to  leave  unbuttoned  the  top  button 
of  his  trousers  front  and  the  bottom  button  of  his 
waistcoat.  Thus  he  often  displayed  a  lozenge  of 
shirt  at  the  spot  where  the  front  centre  line  of  these 
two  garments  met.  You  knew  by  this  that  here 
was  a  man  with  too  much  sense  not  to  waive  ap 
pearances  when  comfort  demanded,  and  you  re 
spected  him  for  it.  The  lozenge  of  shirt  was  dis 
played  now,  as  he  crossed  the  common  and  halted 
at  the  caravan. 

The  movements  of  the  caravan  man  that  morn 
ing,  could  you  have  traced  them,  would  have  given 


io6  The  Caravan  Man 

you,  perhaps,  some  faint  indication  of  a  tendency 
towards  the  erratic  in  his  disposition. 

He  had  risen  very  early,  so  early,  in  fact,  that  he 
had  had  to  light  a  candle  to  dress  by.  The  first 
flush  of  dawn  was  only  just  showing  in  the  eastern 
sky  when  he  emerged  from  his  caravan,  clad  in  a 
pair  of  white  flannel  trousers  and  an  ample  white 
wool  sweater,  whose  voluminous  folds,  encircling 
his  neck  and  coming  well  up  to  the  tops  of  his  ears, 
were  welcome  enough  at  that  early  hour,  even 
though  the  month  was  September  and  every  prom 
ise  in  air  and  sky  was  of  a  fine  day. 

He  first  went  to  the  pond,  where  he  hauled  in 
and  examined  a  night-line  evidently  set  the  evening 
before.  No  luck.  He  re-baited  and  flung  it  again 
into  the  pond.  He  then  got  out  from  the  caravan 
and  rigged  up  a  fishing-rod,  baited  the  line,  ad 
justed  a  float,  and  crawling  stealthily  on  hands 
and  knees  to  another  part  of  the  bank,  gently  low 
ered  his  bait  into  the  water.  He  then  lit  and 
smoked  a  pipe  with  great  satisfaction,  and,  the 
sun  being  now  well  up  in  the  heavens,  lounged  on 
his  back  on  the  bank  with  his  hands  behind  his 
head.  This  for  at  least  an  hour.  Then,  apparently 
startled  from  a  day-dream,  he  hastily  felt  that  part 
of  his  trousers  which  had  borne  the  major  portion 
of  his  weight.  As  might  have  been  expected,  these 
had  drunk  thirstily  of  the  night-dews,  and  his  grunt 
of  evident  discomfort  signalled  his  return  from 


The  Caravan  Man  107 

dreamland  to  the  world  of  cold — and  damp  — 
facts.  He  examined  both  his  lines  again,  quite  un 
ruffled,  apparently,  at  his  continued  failure  to 
secure  any  sort  of  trophy  from  the  pool's  depths, 
and  putting  on  a  fresh  bait,  left  the  unfortunate 
worms  he  had  selected  for  the  job  to  carry  on  with 
out  his  supervision,  and  wandered  away  across  the 
common.  He  went  at  a  steady  tramp,  smoking  his 
pipe,  swashing  a  gorse  bush  from  time  to  time  with 
the  rough  hazel  stick  he  carried,  and  pausing  occa 
sionally  to  make  an  imaginary  frame  in  the  air 
with  his  hands,  through  which  he  surveyed  por 
tions  of  the  landscape. 

Somewhere  between  five  and  six  o'clock  he  was 
back  at  his  caravan.  He  again  examined  his  fishing 
lines,  rejected  a  small  and  too  adventurous  carp 
which  had  essayed  a  flirtation  with  one  of  the 
worms  (it  was  foul-hooked),  released  the  worm 
from  further  duty,  yoked  another  miserable  in  the 
toils  in  its  place,  and  set  about  making  a  fire  of 
sticks  a  yard  or  two  away  from  the  caravan.  He 
then  breakfasted  on  tea,  two  eggs,  a  sardine  on 
bread,  an  apple,  and  what  looked  like  some  pepper 
mint-drops  which  he  found  loose  in  his  trousers 
pocket.  He  then  clambered  into  his  caravan  and 
went  to  sleep. 

Some  hours  later  he  suddenly  appeared  at  the 
door  of  the  caravan,  yawned,  ambled  down  the 
steps,  put  fresh  sticks  on  his  fire,  hung  in  the 


1 08  The  Caravan  Man 

flames  on  a  tripod  a  round  iron  pot  which  he  filled 
at  the  pond.  From  the  caravan  he  brought  out  a 
shaving-mug  and  brush,  and  when  the  water  in 
the  iron  pot  was  hot  he  filled  the  mug,  beat  up  the 
soap,  and  commenced  to  lather  his  face  preparatory 
to  a  shave.  A  slight,  perhaps  fancied,  movement 
of  his  float,  just  visible  over  the  tops  of  the  reeds 
in  the  pond,  caught  his  eye.  He  flew  lightly  over, 
seized  the  butt  of  his  rod  and  struck.  Again  no 
luck;  the  float  and  line  jerked  upward,  the  hook  set 
tled  gracefully  among  the  branches  of  the  overhang 
ing  tree,  and  laughingly  beckoned  him  to  other  pas 
time.  Adopting  one  only  of  the  short  selection  of  ap 
propriate  remarks  fisherman's  custom  has  compiled 
for  use  on  such  occasions,  he  proceeded,  standing  on 
tiptoe,  to  disentangle  his  hook  —  no  easy  job.  He 
had  succeeded,  had  cast  to  the  winds  of  heaven  the 
dilapidated  remains  of  the  worm,  a  silent  but  not 
quite  passive  participant  in  the  amusement  of  the 
moment,  when  a  rapping  noise  from  the  caravan 
caught  his  ear,  and  looking  up,  he  discovered  that 
the  day  had  already  brought  him  visitors. 

He  picked  up  his  shaving-mug  and  brush  and 
went  over. 

"Hullo,"  said  he. 

Mr.  George  Gubbins  and  Miss  Dorothy  Double- 
daisy  turned  at  his  greeting. 

"'Mamm',"  said  Mr.  Gubbins,  and  Dorothy 
nodded. 


The  Caravan  Man  109 

"  'Morning,"  responded  the  caravan  man  —  and 
kept  a  grave  face. 

Dorothy  was  a  plump  country  maiden,  grey-eyed, 
rosy-faced,  clear-skinned,  an  appetizing  morsel,  with 
a  great  bun  of  red  hair  on  her  neck,  red  arms,  dis 
played  to  the  elbows,  thick  ankles,  and  the  finest 
of  fine  teeth.  She  was  dressed  for  a  wedding;  doubt 
of  that  was  impossible  in  face  of  the  evidence  of 
her  white  cotton  gloves,  her  dress,  donned  for  the 
first  time,  of  silk,  something  between  grey  and 
lavender  in  hue,  and  a  huge  bouquet  of  flowers  of 
all  kinds,  roses,  marigolds,  sweet-william,  verbena 
—  and  lots  and  lots  of  maidenhair  fern. 

A  wedding,  yes  —  but  in  that  case,  what  did 
Mr.  Gubbins  in  that  galley?  For  Mr.  Gubbins  was 
dressed  in  weeds  of  woe  —  an  ample  black  broad 
cloth  frock-coat,  a  waistcoat  to  match,  a  pair  of 
rather  tight-cut  trousers,  also  black,  a  large  black 
bow  at  his  neck,  emerging  from  under  a  broad 
turned-down  starched  collar,  and  a  very  tall  silk 
hat,  round  which  was  draped,  one  might  almost 
say  festooned,  a  voluminous  scarf  of  crape,  which 
soared  in  front,  even  above  the  level  of  the  roof  of 
the  hat,  and  was  caught  into  a  cunning  rosette  at 
the  back,  from  which  the  ends  drooped  onto  his 
shoulder. 

He  was  a  sandy  man,  with  freckles.  He  wore 
short  side-whiskers  and  his  hair,  a  trifle  thin,  per 
haps,  was  brushed  well  forward  over  his  ears.  In 


no  The  Caravan  Man 

the  crook  of  his  left  elbow  rested  one  of  Dorothy's 
gloved  hands,  in  his  right  hand  was  clutched  an 
umbrella,  black,  ivory-handled,  and  of  a  majesty 
of  proportion  that  could  lend  dignity,  even  gravity, 
to  any  human  occasion.  It  was  this  umbrella 
whose  rapping  had  interrupted  the  fishing.  The 
caravan  man  looked  expectant. 

"We  wants  our  photos  took,"  explained  Mr. 
Gubbins. 

"And  a  beautiful  picture  you'll  make,"  said  the 
caravan  man  confidently. 

Dorothy  unfolded  the  situation  further,  with 
pretty  shyness  and  dignity  conjoined.  "Us  be 
goin'  to  be  married." 

"To  be  what?"  said  the  caravan  man.  "To  be 
ma —  Oh,  no,  no!"  He  appealed  to  Mr.  Gubbins. 
"Don't  tell  me  that.  Not  in  those — not  in  that 
suit,  surely!" 

"Just  as  we  are,"  said  Mr.  Gubbins.  "Not  that 
these  be  my  ch'ice,  mind  'ee,  but  I  ain't  got  no 
ch'ice,  have  I,  Dolly?" 

"No,  Jarge,"  said  Dolly,  a  faint  wrinkle  in  her 
brow.  "But  it  don't  matter." 

"She  don't  mind,  so  I  don't,"  said  Mr.  Gubbins. 
"It's  to  oblige  my  fust  wife." 

"Well,"  responded  the  caravan  man  heartily, 
"I  must  say  you're  a  very  obliging  man.  If  I 
might  say  so,  there's  even  something  of  generosity 
about  it." 


The  Caravan  Man  1 1 1 

"Don't  you  mistake  me,"  said  Mr.  Gubbins  with 
a  touch  of  bitterness.  "I  ain't  doin'  it  because  I 
want  to.  Ye  see,  she  owned  the  watercreese  beds, 
down  by  the  canal,  and  when  she  died  last  Michael 
mas,  she  left  it  in  her  will  that  if  I  got  married 
again  before  the  year  was  out  it  was  to  be  in  the 
same  clo'es  as  I  buried  her  in." 

"I  take  it,"  said  the  caravan  man,  "that  you 
followed  the  usual  custom  and  performed  the  last 
sad  rites  before  ascertaining  the  final  disposition 
of  her  worldly  goods?" 

"If  you  mean,"  said  Mr.  Gubbins,  "did  we  bury 
her  fust  and  read  her  will  arterwards,  yus,  we  did. 
Ef  I'd  'a'  known  what  she'd  wrote  down,"  he  con 
tinued,  "  I  'd  'a'  gone  to  her  berryin'  in  something 
a  bit  more  sporty  than  this  get-up."  He  examined 
his  trousers  with  distaste.  "But  there,  that  was 
'er,  to  the  life.  Always  a  spoil-sport." 

"Not  without  a  sense  of  humour,  I  fancy,"  sug 
gested  the  caravan  man. 

"You  oughter  known  'er.  Why,  Sunday  arter 
she  died  Parson  in  pulpit  give  it  out  that  one  of  our 
little  community  well  known  to  us  all  'ad  been 
released  from  this  earthly  purgatory,  and  'er 
own  mother  as  was  a-settin'  in  the  pew  next  to 
me  leans  over  an'  ses,  'Does  'e  mean  'er,  Jarge,  or 
you?'" 

"Well,  I  don't  mind,  Jarge.  I'm  marryin'  you 
and  not  your  trousers,  so  hurry  up,  young  man." 


H2  The  Caravan  Man 

Dorothy  Doubledaisy  was  properly  businesslike. 
"Besides,  there's  an  'am  b'ilinV 

"A  what?"  asked  the  caravan  man,  pardonably 
puzzled. 

"An  'am,"  explained  Mr.  Gubbins.  "You  know 
what  an  'am  is,  don't  you?" 

"Oh,  an  'am  —  I  see.  Quite,  quite.  Good  luck 
to  it.  Very  well;  just  go  over  there,  will  you?"  — 
he  indicated  the  roots  of  the  beech  tree  sprawling 
round  his  caravan  wheels  —  "and  look  your  love 
liest  while  I  get  the  machine  ready." 

He  dived  inside,  the  door  closed,  red  blinds  were 
pulled  down  over  the  windows,  and  after  a  minute 
or  so  he  came  out,  bearing  his  camera  on  its  feeble 
legs,  a  folded  black  cloth  under  one  arm,  a  double 
darkslide  under  the  other.  With  these  he  edged  his 
uneasy  way  down  the  caravan  steps,  and  proceeded 
to  make  the  necessary  disposition  of  the  apparatus 
of  his  trade. 

It  took  some  little  time,  and  in  correct  profes 
sional  manner  he  engaged  his  patrons  with  chat  of 
a  light  and  agreeable  nature. 

"  So  you  two  are  going  to  make  the  great  adven 
ture  together,  eh?" 

"For  better,  for  wuss,"  quoted  Mr.  Gubbins 
with  great  satisfaction. 

Dolly  nudged  him  meaningly.  "You  could  n't 
be  much  wuss  than  you  was  Sat'dy  before  last, 
Jarge,"  she  murmured. 


The  Caravan  Man  113 

For  all  her  maiden  shyness,  the  caravan  man 
thought  he  could  detect  in  the  tones  of  her  voice  a 
tinge  of  reproof  that  later  would  not  be  content  to 
stop  at  the  merely  remonstrative.  Possibly — so 
subtle  are  the  instincts  of  self-preservation  in  man 
inclined  to  pleasant  error  —  Mr.  Gubbins's  ear 
caught  the  same  note. 

"Couldn't  I?  That's  all  you  know,"  he  an 
swered  Dorothy  with  conviction. 

"Let's  hope  not,"  intervened  the  caravan  man 
from  under  his  black  cloth. 

"What  do  you  know  about  it?"  demanded  Mr. 
Gubbins.  "Was  you  there?" 

"Was  I  there!"  repeated  the  caravan  man,  com 
ing  out  from  under  his  cloth,  doing  something  to 
the  front  of  the  camera,  and  diving  under  the  cloth 
again.  "Was  I  there !  —  Was  n't  I  one  of  the  three 
good  men  that  brought  you  home  from  the  Pink 
and  Lily  after  closing-time?" 

"  I  did  n't  know  —  I  s'pose  I  did  n't  know  much 
about  anything.  Much  obliged." 

"Not  a  bit.  A  pleasure,  I  assure  you." 

"Was  I  singin'?"  asked  Mr.  Gubbins. 

The  caravan  man,  again  coming  into  view, 
breathed  thoughtfully  on  his  lens  and  began  to 
polish  it  with  his  handkerchief. 

"Singing?"  he  answered.  "Well,  I  don't  know 
that  I  should  exact — "  He  broke  off  the  thread 
of  that  speech  and  spun  another.  "Singing?  — 


H4  The  Caravan  Man 

rather!  You  were  the  brightest  little  skylark  I've 
heard  for  many  a  long  time." 

"Singin',"  said  Mr.  Gubbins,  "is  a  nabbit  of 


mine." 


"A  what?" 

"A  nabbit  —  you  know  what  a  nabbit  is,  don't 
you?" 

"Oh!  an  'abit  —  I  beg  your  pardon.  It's  a  cap 
tivating  habit,  at  times." 

"Down  at  the  Pink  and  Lily,"  continued  Mr. 
Gubbins,  "they  give  me  credit  for  havin'  some 
thing  of  a  v'ice." 

"I  don't  think,"  rejoined  the  caravan  man,"  that 
that's  doing  quite  the  square  thing  by  you." 

"Why  not?  —  Whatd'yer  mean?"  asked  Mr. 
Gubbins. 

"Giving  credit  in  public-houses  has  long  been 
recognized  as  a  dangerous  custom,"  answered  the 
caravan  man,  "  and  if,  as  in  your  case,  it  is  in  open 
encouragement  of  an  admitted  vice — " 

"'Ere!"  said  Mr.  Gubbins.  "Who  are  you  get- 
tin'  at?  I'm  'arf  a  mind  not  to  have  my  photo 
took,  arter  all." 

"Come,  come,"  said  the  caravan  man  sooth 
ingly,  "we  must  n't  disappoint  the  lady.  Let's  get 
on  with  it."  His  camera  was  now  apparently  ad 
justed  to  his  liking.  He  came  over  and  urged  both 
Dorothy  and  Mr.  Gubbins  towards  the  shade  of 
the  beech  tree.  "I  think,"  he  said  reflectively,  "I 


The  Caravan  Man  115 

think  we  will  pose  the  group  in  the  accepted  fash 
ion.  The  lady  sits  —  just  here,  will  you,  madam? 
—  and  the  gentleman  stands  a  little  behind  her  — 
a  simple  but  effective  arrangement." 

Mr.  Gubbins  suddenly  disclosed  a  quite  violent 
objection  to  the  suggestion,  despite  its  effective 
ness  and  simplicity. 

"I  bain't  goin'  to  have  her  in  front  o'  me.  I 
bain't  goin'  to  stand  behind  any  wumman." 

He  meant  it.  The  caravan  man  essayed  persua 
sion.  "I  quite  understand  your  feeling,  sir,  but 
the  world  belongs  to  women  nowadays.  Better 
give  in  without  a  struggle."  He  came  suddenly 
across. 

"Let  me  take  your  umbrella."  He  annexed  it, 
and  leant  it  against  the  caravan  wheel. 

Mr.  Gubbins  started  forward.  "'Ere,  gimme 
my  umberella.  I  wants  that  took  as  well." 

"Oh,  not  the  umberella,  Jarge!"  Dorothy  Dou- 
bledaisy  interposed. 

Mr.  Gubbins  was  roused.  His  blood  was  up. 
"Then  I  ain't  goin'  to  be  photoed  —  and  what's 
more,  I  ain't  goin'  to  be  married." 

"There  now!"  Dorothy  was  almost  in  tears. 
She  turned  despairingly  to  the  photographer. 
"Young  man,  let  him  have  his  umberella." 

"  Certainly,  by  all  means.  I  '11  let  him  have  mine 
as  well." 

Fresh  grievance.  Mr.  Gubbins,  firmly  grasping 


1 1 6  The  Caravan  Man 

the  large  ivory  handle  of  his  own  umbrella,  turned 
with  renewed  wrath  on  the  photographer.  "'Oo 
arst  you  for  your  umberella?" 

"  I  proffered  it,"answered  the  caravan  man,  con 
siderably  taken  aback,  "  in  the  kindliest  spirit." 

Mr.  Gubbins  refused  to  be  placated.  "'Go's 
payin'  for  this  photograph?" 

Dorothy  let  a  slow  tear  drip  down  one  rosy 
cheek.  "Oh,  Jarge,"  she  faltered,  "do  let's  get  on. 
Think  of  the  'am." 

Perhaps  Mr.  Gubbins  thought  of  the  ham. 
Though  his  words  were  spirited  enough,  a  sugges 
tion  of  placability  came  into  his  tones.  He  ad 
dressed  Dolly.  "If  he  thinks  he's  goin'  to  stick 
his  umberella  into  a  photograph  I  pays  for,  I  wunt 
get  married." 

"Oh,  Jarge!"  A  heart  of  very  stone  could  not 
resist  an  appeal  in  such  a  voice. 

The  caravan  man  seized  the  moment  to  obliter 
ate  all  possible  offence.  "Sir,"  he  said,  "I  with 
draw  my  umbrella.  I  apologize." 

Mr.  Gubbins's  face  cleared  as  does  the  April  sky 
after  a  shower.  He  seized  the  hand  of  the  caravan 
man  and  shook  it  heartily.  "You  means  no  'arm," 
he  conceded  handsomely.  "Coom  down  and  see 
us  this  arternoon  when  the  'am's  b'iled."  He  con 
tinued  to  shake  hands  affectionately. 

"Oh,  Jarge,"  said  Dolly,  "do  let's  get  on." 

"Yes,"  said  the  caravan  man,  "do  let's  get  on. 


The  Caravan  Man  117 

Perhaps  you'd  sit,  and  let  the  lady  stand  by  your 
side,  close — " 

"Tell  you  what,  Dolly,"  —  Mr.  Gubbins  knew 
how  to  be  magnanimous  in  victory  —  "you  shall 
set  aside  me,  close  up." 

The  two  sat  happily  down  on  one  of  the  tree- 
roots. 

"Hold  the  umberella  well  forward,"  directed 
the  photographer.  He  dived  in  under  his  black 
cloth,  came  out  again,  twisted  Dolly's  head  a  little 
to  one  side,  dived  under  again,  and  again  came  out, 
lifted  Mr.  Gubbins's  head  a  little,  assumed  the 
cloth  again  — 

At  just  that  moment  the  fat-faced,  fat-bellied 
man  finished  his  journey  across  the  common  and 
arrived  at  the  caravan. 

He  pulled  up  short,  his  eye  ran  over  the  group 
of  two  —  perhaps,  seeing  the  importance  attached 
to  the  umbrella,  we  had  better  say  group  of  three 
—  on  the  tree-root,  then  he  surveyed  the  caravan 
man,  or  rather,  his  white-trousered  legs,  which 
were  all  that  was  to  be  seen  of  him,  moving  ob 
scurely  about,  enveloped  in  the  focusing  cloth  and 
mingling  with  the  attenuated  legs  of  the  camera. 
The  fat  man  perpended  these  legs  for  a  second  or 
two,  then  with  the  hooked  handle  of  the  light  cane 
he  carried  he  hooked  up  some  of  the  folds  of  the 
cloth,  as  if  a  larger  field  of  view  might  resolve  a 
present  perplexity.  This  apparently  was  the  case. 


1 1 8  The  Caravan  Man 

He  unhooked  his  cane  handle,  let  the  cloth  drop, 
moved  a  pace  or  two  backwards  and,  "Bamfield!" 
he  exclaimed,  with  great  earnestness.  "Good 
Heavens,  Bamfield! — " 

At  his  voice  there  was  a  convulsion  of  the  black 
cloth,  and  the  caravan  man  suddenly  started  from 
underneath  it.  His  eyes  fell  on  the  fat  man,  and 
the  two  stood  for  a  second  staring  intently  at  one 
another.  Then  a  slight  flush  overspread  the  face 
of  the  caravan  man,  and  he  spoke  loudly  and 
aggressively:  — 

"One  at  a  time,"  he  said,  "if  you  please,  sir. 
And  kindly  note  that  my  name  is  Jones." 

Apparently  the  fat  man's  astonishment  was  too 
great  to  allow  of  the  proper  assimilation  of  this 
direction,  for  he  answered,  "Good  Heavens!  it  is 
—  yes,  it  is  Bamfield!  Bammy,  old  man — " 

"Jones,  please;  Jones,"  said  the  caravan  man. 
Under  his  breath  he  added,  "Shut  up,  you  fool," 
and  turning  his  back  on  the  fat  man  proceeded 
with  his  professional  task. 

He  addressed  the  couple  sitting  on  the  tree- 
roots.  "We  must  have  a  smile,"  he  said.  Dorothy 
smiled.  The  caravan  man  smiled  acknowledgment. 
The  convulsive  writhing  of  Mr.  Gubbins's  face, 
however,  failed  to  please  him.  "Oh,  no,"  he  re 
monstrated,  "  not  that  —  not  that  — "  He  thought 
for  a  moment.  "Perhaps,  after  all,  it  will  be  as 
well  if  the  gentleman  does  n't  smile."  Mr.  Gub- 


The  Caravan  Man  119 

bins  relaxed  his  efforts.  "Just  look  natural," 
suggested  the  caravan  man.  Mr.  Gubbins's  face 
commenced  another  and  still  more  distressing 
series  of  muscular  acrobatics.  "Oh,  well,"  said  the 
man  at  the  camera,  resignedly,  "Still,  please." 
He  put  his  hand  to  the  cap  of  the  lens. 

Instantly  Mr.  Gubbins  shot  from  his  seat.  "  'Old 
'ard,"  said  he.  "What's  this  goin'  to  cost?" 

The  caravan  man  replaced  the  loosened  lens  cap. 
"The  charge  for  one  dozen  cabinet  prints,  vignetted 
sepia-toned,  on  plain  mounts,  will  be  seven  shil 
lings  and  sixpence." 

"Seven-and-six!"  Mr.  Gubbins  was  openly  an 
noyed.  He  turned  on  Dorothy  Doubledaisy.  "Why 
did  you  tell  I  foive  shillin's?" 

"I  thart  it  was  foive  shillin's,"  was  all  Dorothy 
could  offer. 

The  photographer  explained  quite  lucidly.  "  Five 
shillings  is  the  charge  for  a  single  sitter.  In  the 
case  of  a  group  of  two  an  extra  charge  of  half-a- 
crown  is  made." 

There  seemed,  one  would  say,  nothing  not  en 
tirely  reasonable  in  this  explanation,  but  Mr. 
Gubbins's  native  obstinacy  was  of  a  sort  to  resist 
mere  reason.  "I  bain't  goin'  to  pay  more'n  five 
shillin's,"  he  announced. 

"Oh,  Jarge!"  expostulated  Dorothy. 

"Come,"  persuaded  the  caravan  man,  "come; 
I  'm  throwing  in  the  umbrella  for  nothing." 


1 2  o  The  Caravan  Man 

"You  art  to,"  returned  Mr.  Gubbins,  unmoved. 
"'E  don't  occupy  a  seat,  do  'e?" 

"Oh,  Jarge!"  said  Dorothy  again.  Mr.  Gubbins 
was  obdurate. 

The  caravan  man  vacated  his  entrenchments 
unreservedly,  and  with  a  touch  of  grace.  "A  mo 
ment.  The  occasion  is  no  ordinary  one.  Allow  me 
to  contribute  to  its  felicity  by  waiving  my  usual 
extra  charge.  The  group  of  two  shall  cost  five 
shillings  only." 

"Right!"  said  Mr.  Gubbins.  He  smiled  broadly, 
grasped  the  hand  of  the  caravan  man  and  shook  it 
heartily.  "Coom  down  this  evenin',  when  the 
'am's  cut." 

"Expect  me,"  said  the  caravan  man.  "But  now, 
let's  get  on.  As  you  were."  Dorothy  and  Jarge 
seated  themselves  again.  "Ah,  that's  something 
like  a  smile  this  time —  Now,  ready!  Steady!" 
The  cap  was  lifted,  the  happy  pair  sat  like  rocks, 
the  cap  was  replaced.  "Right,"  said  the  caravan 
man.  "Prints  ready  on  Saturday."  He  shook 
hands  with  them  both  heartily,  considered  Dor 
othy's  rosy  face  for  a  second,  decided  rapidly  that 
perhaps  he  had  better  not  try  it  on.  "Good  luck!" 

"Coom  down  to-night,"  said  Mr.  Gubbins, 
"when  the  'am's  cold.  Ye  know  my  place  —  the 
watercreese  beds,  down  t'other  side  o'  the  canal. 
It '11  be  a  fine 'am." 

"I  should  n't  wonder,"  said  the  caravan  man. 


The  Caravan  Man 


121 


Dorothy  nodded  and  smiled,  Mr.  Gubbins  drew 
her  arm  through  his,  waved  his  umbrella,  and 
maid  and  swain  moved  off  to  where  the  spire  of 
Ouseton  church  peered  meaningly  at  them  across 
the  common. 

The  caravan  man  now  whipped  round  on  the 
fat  man,  who,  during  the  operation  of  taking  the 
photograph,  had  stood  a  little  away,  his  pipe, 
fireless  and  foul,  projecting  from  between  firmly 
compressed  lips.  "Now,  sir,"  said  the  caravan 
man  breezily,  "it's  a  beautiful  morning  for  having 
your  photograph  taken.  May  I  have  the  pleasure? 
Five  shillings  a  dozen  only,  and  no  waiting.  Have 
every  confidence,  sir.  I  guarantee  a  likeness  —  if 
that's  any  inducement  in  your  case.  My  name," 
he  went  on,  "is  Jones,  George  Jones,  artist  in 
photography.  Wedding  groups  and  funerals  a  spe 
cialty.  Babies  barred."  The  fat  man  continued  to 
chew  his  pipe-stem,  and  regard  him  with  expres 
sionless  face.  The  caravan  man  gave  it  up.  He 
extended  his  hand. 

"Monkey,  how  are  you?"  he  said. 

His  greeting  was  one  of  cordiality,  not  of  deri 
sion.  The  fat  man  shook  heartily  the  hand  held 
out  to  him.  "Well,  Bammy,"  he  said,  "here  you 
are,  then." 

"Yes,  here  I  am,"  said  the  caravan  man.  There 
was  just  a  touch  of  defiance,  a  hint  of  "Well,  what 
about  it?"  in  his  manner. 


122  The  Caravan  Man 

The  other  filled  his  pipe  again  and  sat  down 
leisurely  on  the  caravan  steps,  looking  him  over 
and  smiling.  Then:  — 

"You  are  a  fathead,  you  know,  Bammy,"  he 
said  earnestly. 

"  I  don't  see  it,"  said  the  caravan  man. 

"Yes,  you  do.  We  heard  about  it  —  up  in  Scot 
land,  were  n't  you  ?  —  going  about  in  this  precious 
caravan,  taking  photos  and  painting  landscape. 
What's  it  mean?  What's  your  idiotic  idea?" 

"What's  wrong  with  it?" 

"My  dear  boy,  why  need  you  ask?  Now,  look 
here;  why  is  it?  We  all  want  to  know.  You  slog 
away,  harder  than  most  of  us,  at  your  proper  work 
—  figure,  nudes.  You  give  us  to  understand  that 
you  intend  to  be  the  only  pebble  on  the  beach  in 
that  line.  You  sweat  at  it  year  after  year.  And 
then—" 

"Well?" 

"Well,  you  hop  it  in  a  caravan.  And  here  you 
are  taking  photos  and  painting  landscape  —  land 
scape,  mark  you!  A  thing  any  mug  can  do!  Silly 
ass!" 

"  I  suppose  I  can  drop  figure  and  go  in  for  land 
scape,  if  I  want  to?" 

"My  dear  lad,  you  can  open  an  eel-pie  shop  if 
you  want  to.  It's  a  free  country." 

"But  supposing  I  find  I  can  work  more  steadily 
at  landscape?" 


The  Caravan  Man  123 

"Work  —  work!"  The  fat  man  eyed  him  with 
pitying  scorn.  "Are  we  artists?" 

The  caravan  man  evidently  fretted  under  this 
questioning.  He  began  to  pace  about. 

"I  —  I'm  ambitious,"  he  said  —  said  it  with  a 
touch  of  apology,  as  does  any  decent  Englishman 
forced  to  disclose  anything  of  serious  inner  feelings. 
"  I  want  to  be  one  of  the  big  men." 

"You  will  be." 

"Well,  but  —  old  man  —  I  mean  one  of  the  men 
who  are  —  are  always  going  to  be  big  —  to  count. 
Sometimes  I  feel  I  can —  that  I  Ve  got  it  in  me,  that 
everything 's  inside  me  that 's  necessary,  and  all  I  Ve 
got  to  do  now  is  work  —  and  work  damned  hard, 
mind  you.  It  can't  be  done  without  that,  Monk." 

The  other  nodded.  "But  why  not  stick  to  the 
nude,  your  proper  work?  There's  not  another  man 
living  can  paint  skin  as  you  can." 

"Well,  the  nude's  too  —  distracting.  You  start 
with  an  abnormal  appreciation  of  that  variety  of 
beauty;  you  train  hand  and  eye  and  brain  on  it, 
year  after  year,  till  it's  an  obsession;  your  whole 
life  is  filled  with  the  sense  of  the  beauty  of  a 
beautiful  woman  —  and  everything  else  is  of  no 
importance." 

"Well?" 

"Well,  if  you're  human  —  and  you  can't  paint 
that  sort  of  thing  unless  you  are  —  it 's  the  devil's 
own  job  to  work  steadily." 


124  The  Caravan  Man 

"Oho!"  said  the  fat  man,  sucking  his  pipe  re 
flectively. 

"And  you  find  the  world  full  of  it  —  full  of 
lovely  feminine  things  full  of  grace  and  charm 
and  inspiration  —  and  —  and  —  distraction  —  and 
good-bye,  work,  and  where  are  we  now?  You 
know  it  can't  go  on,  Monkey.  I  just  thought  it 
all  out,  bought  this  caravan,  shut  up  my  studio 
and  went  in  for  landscape." 

"As  I  said  before,  silly  ass!" 

"No,  Monk.  I'm  right.  It's  been  splendid 
training  in  lots  of  ways.  When  you've  worked  at 
landscape  and  learned  the  charm  that  lies  in  trees 
and  skies  —  water  —  this  sort  of  thing"  —  he  in 
dicated  the  broad  sweep  of  the  common  —  "you 
get  the  point  of  view  for  every  sort  of  beauty.  You 
can  fill  yourself  with  the  sense  of  a  woman's  loveli 
ness  and  still  be  safe." 

The  fat  man  chuckled.  "Now,  that's  a  long-felt 
want.  It's  what  the  world's  been  waiting  for  ever 
since  Adam  told  Eve  he  preferred  her  as  she  used 
to  be." 

The  other  stopped  his  peregrinations.  "Think 
of  a  woman's  hair  —  the  marvel  of  it  —  when  a 
great  thick  curve  of  it  comes  welling  over  her  ear! 
And  her  skin  —  the  colour,  the  texture  —  you  see 
it  on  her  face  and  hands  and  neck,  and  it  makes 
you  wonder  what  she'd  be  like  —  and  when  she 
turns  her  head  over  her  shoulder,  or  stoops,  or 


The  Caravan  Man  125 

bends  —  the  living  line  that  flies  all  along  the  edge 
of  her  —  Gods,  is  n't  she  fine!" 

"And  who's  the  lady?"  queried  the  fat  man  in 
a  matter-of-fact  tone. 

The  caravan  man  came  back  from  his  rhapsody. 
"Oh,  I'm  speaking  in  the  abstract.  Well,  what  I 
feel  is  that  I  could  paint  that  sort  of  thing  now 
without  qualms.  I  could  go  back  to  my  old  studio 
at  Primrose  Hill  —  I  still  keep  it  on  —  and  take  up 
figure  again.  But  this  life  gets  hold  of  one.  Fifteen 
months  of  it,  rambling  about,  dressing  anyhow, 
consulting  no  one  —  it's  ideal." 

Monk  refilled  his  pipe.  "You'll  come  back  to 
figure,  Bamfield.  What  about  your  landscape? 
Sells,  I  suppose?" 

"I  don't  sell  it."  Bamfield  began  to  pace  about 
again;  "I  'm  painting  to  please  myself  —  and  damn 
the  dealers!" 

"Certainly  —  damn  the  dealers,  damn  them  all. 
I'm  with  you  there,"  agreed  Monk.  "But  our  un 
fortunate  profession — " 

"And  damn  the  profession!  Art  should  be  ama 
teur  —  all  the  arts  —  music,  painting,  drama,  liter 
ature.  Work  at  'em  for  the  love  of  them,  but  never 
for  money." 

"And  how  do  we  live?"  queried  Monk,  open- 
eyed. 

"Get  your  living  at  anything  else  —  never  at 
creative  work  of  that  sort.  I  take  photographs."  J 


126  The  Caravan  Man 

"  Proper  photographs  ? " 

Bamfield  walked  into  his  caravan,  came  out 
with  a  handful  of  prints  and  offered  them  for  in 
spection.  Monk  stared  at  him,  aghast.  "You 
know,  Bamfield,  you  are  absolutely  the  limit!" 

Bamfield  was  warming  to  his  theme  now.  "You 
know,  Monkey,  we  artists  build  a  temple  of  pure 
fancy  to  dwell  in,  and  there  we  minister  to  our 
idols,  our  dreams." 

"I  don't,  dear  boy  —  believe  me,  I  do  not,"  said 
Monk  solemnly. 

"We  rage,"  went  on  Bamfield,  "because  when 
we've  painted  something  fine,  most  of  us  have  to 
chaffer  with  swine  who  will  see  only  money  in  our 
loveliest  efforts." 

Monk  grinned.  "They  won't  always  do  that, 
even,  will  they?  Blast 'em!" 

"Well,  but  it's  an  invigorating  thing  for  a  man 
of  imaginative  temperament  to  be  brought  into 
occasional  contact  with  earth.  So  just  for  the  tonic 
of  the  thing,  I  earn  my  living  as  I  go,  at  photog 
raphy.  Five  bob  a  dozen.  And  another  splendid 
thing,  it's  cured  me  of  this  cursed  inspiration." 

Monk  felt  bewildered.  "Cured  you  of — "  he 
began  weakly. 

"Inspiration"  —  Bamfield  laid  down  the  law  — 
"like  the  artistic  temperament,  is  a  fraud,  a  mere 
excuse  for  being  damnably  lazy  and  doing  about  a 
quarter  of  a  proper  man's  work." 


The  Caravan  Man  127 

"Here,  don't  give  our  snug  little  trade  away!" 

"Sometimes,  when  I'm  ready  to  start  a  canvas, 
some  fat  old  frump  turns  up  in  her  best  velvet 
frock  and  wants  to  be '  took.'  In  the  old  days,  when 
I  rather  cultivated  being  a  sensitive  creature,  that 
would  have  put  me  off  work  for  six  weeks,  but  now 
I  take  her  photo,  I  take  her  five  bob,  and  I  go  on 
with  my  painting  like  a  proper  craftsman." 

"Like  a  plumber." 

Bamfield  ignored  the  comment.  "I'm  a  crafts 
man.  And  art  will  flourish,  and  great  ideals  will 
live  in  England  once  again,  when  every  artist 
learns  to  make  himself  a  sane  and  healthy  work 
man."  He  broke  off  and  came  back  to  earth. 
"What  are  you  sniggering  at?" 

Monk  knocked  out  his  pipe,  put  it  into  his 
pocket,  rose,  and,  making  his  cap  into  a  bag,  pro 
ceeded  to  collect  coins  from  an  imaginary  crowd, 
smiling  ingratiatingly  as  he  did  so. 

"Thank  you,  sir — and  you,  sir.  Thank  you, 
miss.  Brother  Bamfield  will  repeat  his  highly 
humorous  address  this  evening,  on  the  beach,  close 
to  the  pier."  He  surveyed  Bamfield  with  good- 
humoured  scorn.  "My  lad,"  he  went  on,  with  real 
good-nature,  "I've  a  bit  of  news  for  you.  You've 
arrived!"  He  delivered  his  information  with  a  pro 
found  sense  of  the  dramatic  effect  of  simplicity. 

To  his  evident  astonishment,  the  caravan  man 
replied  with  equal  simplicity,  "  I  know  I  have." 


128  The  Caravan  Man 

"The  critics  have  found  you  out,  the  people  who 
buy  have  found  you  out,  Bamfield.  The  Daily 
Mail — "  He  broke  off.  "You  know!  —  what  do 
you  mean?" 

"I  mean,"  said  Bamfield,  "that  I  am  fully  aware 
that  I  can  now  sell  whatever  I  paint  at  my  own 
price.  IVe  known  it  for  the  last  three  months. 
Know  how  I  found  out?  Remember  Iffelstein?" 
The  other  nodded.  "Twice  he  came  hunting  me 
out  to  let  him  have  stuff.  I  wondered  why.  I  went 
up  to  town  and  made  enquiries  —  and  I  found  out. 
They  want  me  —  at  last!"  He  stretched  himself 
luxuriously. 

"And  do  you  know  where  our  friend  Iffelstein 
is  now?  I  came  down  part  of  the  way  in  his  car. 
He's  hunting  round  the  far  side  of  the  common  for 
you,  and  I  was  to  meet  him  and  bring  him  along  if 
I  found  you." 

"Then  go  and  stop  him!  Stop  him,  Monk,  or 
there'll  be  murder.  When  I  think  of  the  way  that 
swine  used  to  sweat  me  —  Bring  him  here  and  I  '11 
drown  him  in  this  pond." 

"Good  Lord,  Bammy,  don't  be  a  fool!  Come 
back  to  London.  Fame's  waiting  for  you." 

"Let  it  wait"  (with  a  magnificent  gesture). 
"  I  Ve  waited  long  enough.  I  'm  in  no  hurry.  This 
life 's  a  joy.  I  'm  waiting  for  canvases  and  in  the 
meantime  I've  picked  out  some  lovely  little  bits 
round  here  that  simply  cry  to  be  painted." 


The  Caravan  Man  129 

"Did  this  one  cry  much?"  asked  Monk  suddenly. 

Bamfield  stared. 

Monk  held  out  a  number  of  the  prints  he  had 
taken  from  the  packet  Bamfield  had  submitted. 
"Lovely  little  bits!  —  and  this  is  one  of  'em,  I  sup 
pose?" 

Bamfield  strode  across  and  grabbed  the  pile  of 
prints.  "That?  —  Oh,  that  should  n't  be  there." 

Monk  shook  his  head  sourly.  "I  see.  The  long 
and  short  of  it  is  you're  going  to  get  mixed  up 
with  a  wife." 

"Whose  wife?" 

"Don't  frivol.  Bamfield,  old  man,  don't  do  it. 
Remember  what  we've  agreed  on  so  often  —  the 
man  who  proposes  to  a  girl  till  he's  known  her  inti 
mately  for  at  least  twenty  years  is  a  fool,  and  the 
artist  who  gets  married  under  any  circumstances 
whatever  is  a  criminal." 

"I  know.  But,  my  dear  Monk,  —  Oh,  it's  ab 
surd.  What  should  I  want  with  a  wife?  —  I 've  got 
a  carpet-sweeper." 

The  fat  man  started  up  as  if  stung.  "I  knew  it 
—  I  guessed  it!  A  carpet-sweeper!  —  first  symp 
toms  of  the  nesting  instinct.  I've  seen  it  in  other 
sufferers.  Oh,  Bamfield,  beware.  A  man  begins 
with  an  innocent  carpet-sweeper,  and  before  he 
knows  where  he  is,  he  finds  himself  landed  with  a 
house  full  of  furniture  and  a  wife." 

Bamfield  paced  away  impatiently.  "Monk,  don't 


130  The  Caravan  Man 

worry.  You  know  my  sweetheart,  my  one  and  only 
mistress,  the  little  girl  painted  on  my  studio  wall. 
Nothing  lives  that's  half  so  sweet  as  she  looks.  For 
ever  my  only  love!"  He  struck  a  pose,  hand  on 
heart. 

"Pah!"  Monk  was  bitterly  incredulous.  "Well, 
God  forgive  you.  Might  have  been  a  great  painter" 

—  he  addressed  the  landscape  generally  —  "  but 
got  married.  I  'm  off.  I  'm  not  wanted  here.  I  may 
be  intruding.  Where's  Iffelstein?  —  I'll  meet  him 
and  take  him  away,  since  we're  too  swell-headed 
to  listen  to  reason.  Bammy,"  he  interrupted  him 
self  suddenly,  "mind  she  don't  humbug  you." 

"Oh,  shut  up!"  said  Bamfield  testily. 

"Do  you  know  what's  going  to  happen  to  you 

—  may  have  happened  for  all  you  know?  Do  you 
know  anything  of  Lord  Bamfylde?  No  relation  of 
his,  are  you?" 

"None  at  all.  Never  heard  of  him.  Why?" 

"He  spells  his  name  with  a  *y,'  but  I  thought 
you  might  be  in  the  family.  He's  one  of  these 
nature-study  men,  the  new  sport,  goes  about  in  a 
caravan,  with  a  camera,  snapshotting  birds,  beasts, 
and  fishes,  all-alive-oh !  Now,  supposing  this 
'  lovely  little  bit '  of  yours  has  been  a  bit  too  smart 
for  once,  and  has  mistaken  you  for  his  lordship  — " 

"But  why?" 

"Why,  you  duffer? —  D'  you  suppose  they 
have  n't  paragraphed  him  in  the  papers  ?  Look  at 


The  Caravan  Man  131 

the  chance  for  a  muddle.  Wandering  individual, 
caravan,  photography,  same  name — " 

"No,"  said  Bamfield.  "I've  told  you  once  — 
my  name  is  Jones." 

"What  for?" 

"  Iffelstein's  doing.  The  beggar  hunted  after  me 
steadily,  and  I  dodged  him  by  dropping  Bamfield 
and  taking  to  Jones." 

"Well,  he's  got  you  now,  for  all  that." 

"Has  he!  Well,  then,  Monk,  stop  him.  Do  you 
want  to  see  me  swung  by  the  neck?" 

"Can't  say  —  it  might  be  for  the  best,"  said  the 
other  malevolently. 

"Oh,  go  and  stop  him,  Monk.  Tell  him  he's  a 
dead  man  if  he  comes  here." 

"Keep  calm,  keep  calm,"  said  Monk.  "I'll 
explain."  He  moved  away  past  the  caravan. 
"Bammy,"  he  said,  suddenly  stopping,  "have  you 
really,  really  let  yourself  in  for  a  carpet-sweeper?" 

With  an  air  of  lofty  condescension  the  caravan 
man  went  up  the  steps  and  came  down  with  an 
undeniable  carpet-sweeper.  He  handed  it  to  the 
fat  man,  who  took  it  silently. 

"Bamfield,"  he  said,  "let  me  have  it.  Let  me 
take  it  away.  Let  me  —  let  me  cut  the  plague  spot 
out.  It  may  hurt,  but  one  slash  of  the  surgeon's 
knife,  and  all  risk  of  the  infection  spreading  is 


over." 


Bamfield  hastily  grabbed  his   carpet-sweeper. 


132  The  Caravan  Man 

"Out  of  it!"  he  commanded.  "I  know  you  and 
your  dirty  old  studio.  Buy  your  own  carpet- 
sweeper,  or  pinch  some  one  else's.  Let  it  alone, 
or — "  He  held  it  up  threateningly. 

Monk  made  a  despairing  movement  of  his  hands, 
and  lumbered  away.  "I  warned  you,"  he  said, 
solemnly  and  simply. 

Bamfield  put  his  thumb  to  his  nose  and  spread 
his  fingers  out.  Monk,  sadness  in  the  line  of  his 
dejected  shoulders,  moved  off  through  the  trees. 

Bamfield  suddenly  hailed  him.  "Monkey!" 
Monk  pulled  up  and  looked  back.  "Look  us  up!" 
called  Bamfield.  Monk  waved  a  hand  and  went  on. 

Bamfield  put  the  carpet-sweeper  down  against 
the  caravan  steps,  went  over  to  his  fire  and  stirred 
it.  The  kettle  swinging  over  the  blaze  immedi 
ately  spat  into  his  shoes.  He  hopped,  blessed  the 
kettle,  picked  up  a  shaving-pot  which  lay  there, 
tipped  some  boiling  water  into  it,  mixed  up  a 
lather  with  the  brush,  and  began  to  lather  himself. 

He  heard  the  swift  movement  of  a  skirt  near  him, 
turned  his  head  —  there  was  Rose  Nieugente. 

Up  he  jumped,  pot  in  one  hand,  brush  in  the 
other,  his  face  a  smother  of  lather.  He  oifered 
Rose  first  the  right  hand,  with  the  brush,  then  the 
left  hand,  with  the  pot.  Then  he  tucked  the  brush 
into  the  pot  and  began  to  wipe  the  lather  off. 

Rose,  however,  was  too  charged  with  an  errand 
of  importance  to  take  heed  of  his  appearance.  She 


The  Caravan  Man  133 

was  breathless  with  concern  and  with  hurry.  She 
had  run  all  the  way  from  the  Priory. 

Aunt  Anne  had  come  home  the  previous  night. 
Her  ankle  had  been  quite  well  for  a  few  days,  but 
the  Stickfords  had  kept  her  with  them.  It  was  her 
temperament  to  look  for  the  discovery  of  something 
gone  awry  during  any  prolonged  absence  of  hers, 
but  she  was  unprepared  for  what  she  gathered 
before  she  went  to  bed  that  night. 

Do  you  imagine  Rose's  visits  to  the  caravan  had 
been  entirely  unobserved?  Other  windows  besides 
that  of  Rose's  room  looked  towards  the  spot  on 
which  the  caravan  was  resting.  Not  a  word  had 
escaped  the  properly  trained  serving-maids,  but 
the  establishment  at  the  Priory,  ignorant  of  any 
thing  but  an  outline  of  the  circumstances,  were 
agog  with  the  discovery  that  Miss  Rose  was  having 
what  must  surely  be  a  most  elaborate  photograph 
or  series  of  photographs  taken  by  the  caravan  man. 
The  maids  were  but  women ;  they  had  undoubtedly 
a  liking  for  Rose,  but  —  news  is  news ;  the  acting 
head  of  the  household  was  back,  demanding  infor 
mation;  here  was  matter  for  disclosure —  It  all 
came  out. 

Rose,  brought  to  book,  found  an  unexpected 
courage.  "Why,  what  was  wrong?  I  wanted  a 
photograph;  I  don't  think  much  of  Bapkin;  this 
man  was  handy,  and  he's  very  cheap."  Aunt  Anne 
was  taken  considerably  aback  at  being  faced  in 


134  The  Caravan  Man 

this  way.  "Five  shillings  a  dozen,"  said  Rose.  "It 
was  absurdly  cheap.  And  then,  I  could  n't  very 
well  go  far  from  the  Priory.  I  was  in  charge.  You 
said  I  was  to  keep  an  eye  on  the  maids  — " 

"Do  you  call  that  keeping  an  eye  on  them, 
spending  day  after  day  over  there?  Whatever 
were  you  doing?" 

"  Sitting,"  replied  Rose. 

"All  that  time?" 

"Yes." 

"For  five  shillings?" 

"He  had  bad  —  he  was  n't  successful.  Perhaps 
he  does  n't  know  much  about  photographing  — 
perhaps  that's  why  he  was  so  cheap." 

Of  course  the  interview  between  Rose  and  her 
aunt  had  much  more  in  it  than  that,  but  that  was 
its  essence. 

"You  understand,"  said  Aunt  Anne.  "No  more 
of  it.  I  '11  have  an  end  put  to  this.  I  '11  see  the  man 
myself,  directly  after  breakfast.  Does  a  man  of 
that  class  imagine  that  he  can  spread  his  demoraliz 
ing  influence  broadcast  in  this  locality?  Ah-huh, 
he'll  find  his  mistake  when  I  talk  to  him.  I'm  sur 
prised  at  you,  Rose  —  I'm  shocked.  But  there! 
we  know  where  this  sort  of  thing  comes  from." 
She  had  a  habit  of  winding  up  like  that.  Rose 
usually  hung  her  head.  To-night  —  it  was  just 
before  bedtime  —  strange  to  say,  she  lifted  it,  and 
stared  at  Aunt  Anne  very  hard.  Aunt  Anne  almost 


The  Caravan  Man  135 

fancied  for  a  moment  that  the  child  intended  to 
"answer"  her.  If  she  did,  she  changed  her  mind, 
and  marched  out  of  the  room  to  her  own. 

Rose  heard  Aunt  Anne  and  Granny,  who  had 
gone  to  bed  before  her  daughter's  arrival  home  the 
night  before,  and  who  breakfasted  in  bed  that 
morning,  holding  a  long  conversation  after  break 
fast  downstairs  was  finished.  Then  Rose  was  sent 
for.  The  conversation  of  the  previous  night  was 
repeated  almost  verbatim,  with  Granny's  voice 
intervening  at  frequent  intervals. 

When  she  was  allowed  to  go,  Rose  went  down 
stairs,  and  into  the  rose-garden,  now  losing  much 
of  its  summer  beauty.  The  caravan  man  was  going 
to  catch  it.  It  was  too  bad.  He  ought  to  be  warned. 
If  he  knew,  perhaps  he  would  run  away.  Rose  did 
not  want  him  to  —  but  still,  was  it  fair  to  leave 
him  in  ignorance  of  what  the  next  hour  held  for 
him? 

The  end  of  it  was  that  she  swept  down  on  the 
caravan  man  herself,  before  Aunt  Anne  had  cleared 
off  the  first  of  her  household  supervisory  duties. 

"Look  out!"  said  Rose. 

"What  for?"  demanded  Bamfield. 

"I've  come  to  warn  you." 

"What  for?" 

"My  Aunt  Anne's  coming." 

"What  for?" 

"To  see  you." 


136  The  Caravan  Man 

"What  for?" 

"She's  going  to  give  you  a  talking  to." 

"What  for?"  He  clasped  his  hands  nervously 
together.  "Save  me!"  he  said,  a  tremor  of  appeal 
in  his  voice.  "What  have  I  done?" 

"It's  about  my  coming  here  so  often,"  explained 
Rose.  She  looked  over  her  shoulder  through  the 
trees  the  way  she  had  come.  The  coast  apparently 
was  clear,  and  she  proceeded:  "My  Aunt  Anne 
came  home  from  Stickfordleigh  last  night,  and  — 
and  —  there's  been  a  lot  of  talk,  at  breakfast,  and 
after  .  .  .  You  know,  my  photographs  do  seem  to 
have  taken  rather  a  long  time,  don't  they?" 

"Well,  but  that's  quite  easily  explainable." 
Bamfield  proceeded  to  explain.  "You  were  good 
enough  to  patronize  me,  and  I've  had  shocking 
luck.  There  you  have  it  —  just  luck.  Sometimes 
I  might  have  taken  half  a  dozen  plates  from 
each  of  twenty  sitters  without  a  single  mishap, 
but  it  just  so  happens  —  it  does  just  so  happen  at 
times  — "  He  looked  appealingly  at  Rose. 

"I  quite  understand,"  she  said  good-naturedly. 

"I  was  sure  you  would,"  he  said  gratefully. 
"You  see,  you  were  good  enough  to  patronize  me, 
and  things  began  to  go  wrong.  There  are  so  many 
ways  in  which  photographs  go  wrong.  Let  me  see 
—  last  Wednesday,  was  n't  it,  that  you  sat  for  the 
first  time?" 

"All  day,"  said  Rose. 


The  Caravan  Man  137 

"Ah,  but  then,  you  were  my  first  sitter  in  the 
neighbourhood,  and  naturally  I  had  to  make  rather 
a  special  job  of  you." 

"Is  that  quite  honest?"  asked  Rose  doubtfully. 

"I'll  be  frank  —  it  isn't,"  conceded  Bamfield 
with  an  air  of  revealing  a  past  full  of  dark  deeds, 
and  an  implied  appeal  for  tender  consideration. 
"But  the  photographer,  caught  in  the  toils  of  a 
grinding  commercialism,  is  forced  to  discard,  in 
the  struggle  for  existence,  all  the  finer  instincts  of 
his  nature,  and  to  adopt  methods  that  in  his  better 
moments  revolt  his  soul.  I  admit,"  he  went  on, 
appealing  eyes  on  hers,  —  "I  admit  that  it  was 
my  intention  to  turn  out,  at  five  shillings  a  dozen, 
some  photographs  of  you  that  would  honestly  be 
worth  at  least  ten  shillings.  Miss  Rose,  forgive  me. 
I  confess  it.  I  intended  to  use  you  as  an  advertise 
ment  in  the  neighbourhood." 

"Well,  I  don't  think  you  ought  to,"  answered 
Rose;  "and  from  what  you  told  me  you  don't  seem 
to  have  got  much  advertisement  out  of  me.  After 
all  my  sittings  on  Wednesday  you  did  n't  get  a 
good  photograph  of  me,  did  you?" 

"Something  went  wrong  with  the  developer," 
said  Bamfield. 

"And  on  Thursday,  I  think  you  said  something 
went  wrong  with  the  plates,"  said  Rose. 

"And  on  Friday  something  went  wrong  with  the 
—  with  the — " 


138  The  Caravan  Man 

"The  darkslide,  was  n't  it?  I  must  say,  you 
have  had  bad  luck." 

"Shocking.  And  on  Saturday  something  went 
wrong  with  the  lens,  and  on  Sunday  you  did  n't 


come." 


"I  did,  in  the  afternoon." 

"Well,  you  would  n't  sit,  on  a  Sunday,  so  that 
was  another  day  wasted." 

"And  on  Monday  —  what  went  wrong  on 
Monday?" 

"I  don't  remember,  but  I  know  it  was  something. 
And  yesterday,  I  managed  for  the  first  time  to  get 
something  reasonable;  but  I  was  thinking  that  if 
you  could  spare  the  time,  I  — " 

Splash! 

From  the  pond  came  a  loud  smack,  a  flat,  crisp, 
sudden  concussion  as  of  water  smitten  decidedly. 
Had  Rose,  making  for  the  caravan  that  morning, 
looked  at  it  instead  of  at  Bamfield,  she  would  pos 
sibly  have  seen  a  large  fat  man  working  his  way 
unostentatiously  round  the  caravan  towards  the 
carpet-sweeper  leaning  against  the  steps.  He  saw 
Rose,  and  immediately  dodged  back  behind  the 
nearest  tree.  From  behind  this  tree  he  was  a  spec 
tator  of  the  meeting  between  Rose  and  the  caravan 
man.  They  were,  he  noted,  earnestly  engaged,  and 
very  soon  he  decided  that  a  trifling  precaution  in 
the  matter  of  approach  should  put  him  in  safe 
possession  of  what  he  sought.  He  came  from  be- 


The  Caravan  Man  139 

hind  the  tree,  stepped  behind  the  caravan,  dropped 
not  too  easily  on  hands  and  knees,  and  began  to 
crawl  under  it.  He  bumped  his  head  on  the  hind 
spring,  he  scraped  his  back  rather  painfully  on  the 
front  axle,  but  worming  forward  undaunted,  he 
reached  out  and  secured  the  carpet-sweeper. 
Backing  noiselessly,  he  stood  up  with  his  prize, 
peered  round  the  caravan  to  see  the  two  by  the  fire 
still  busily  engaged  with  each  other,  eyed  the  pond, 
swung  the  carpet-sweeper  — 

Bamfield  and  Rose,  moved  by  the  same  instinct, 
turned  their  faces  towards  the  pond.  All  the  blood 
of  the  sportsman  roused  in  him,  Bamfield  forgot 
Rose  Nieugente,  forgot  the  foreshadowed  advent 
of  Miss  Grampette,  lost  consciousness,  in  fact,  of 
almost  everything  in  the  world  not  connected  with 
that  sudden  smack  on  the  water,  and  the  slowly 
widening  ripples  urging  their  slow  circles  across 
the  smooth  surface  of  the  pond.  One  spring,  and 
he  was  at  the  water's  edge.  Rose  was  after  him  a 
second  later.  The  fat  man,  wondrous  nimble,  was 
safely  in  hiding  on  hands  and  knees  behind  a  gorse- 
bush  not  twenty  feet  away. 

"Got  him!"  gasped  Bamfield,  stooped,  grasped 
his  rod,  struck  —  he  turned  a  blank  face  to  Rose. 
"No,  I  have  n't,"  he  said,  crestfallen.  Not  a 
question  as  to  his  failure.  The  line  came  placidly 
up,  never  a  suggestion  of  a  bend  in  the  slender  top- 
joint  of  the  rod.  "He's  got  off,"  he  continued. 


140  The  Caravan  Man 

"  I  don't  think  he  was  ever  on,"  laughed  Rose. 
"What  are  you  after?  —  old  Mouldy  Methuse 
lah?" 

"I  don't  know  the  gentleman's  name,"  an 
swered  Bamfield,  "but  I  seem  to  recognize  the 
implied  description.  It's  a  fish,  species  unknown, 
but  of  a  simply  enormous  size,  the  kind,  in  fact, 
that  always  gets  away." 

"I  know,"  said  Rose;  "that's  the  one.  Old 
Mouldy  Methuselah  he's  always  called.  Well,  you 
may  as  well  give  tip.  You'll  never  catch  him.  He's 
the  aborigine  of  this  place,  the  oldest  inhabitant. 
I  dare  say  the  Romans  fished  for  him  when  they 
were  here." 

"I'm  no  ignorant  Roman,"  interrupted  Bam 
field. 

"Well,  everybody  about  here  has  done  his  best, 
but  they  say  he  knows  more  about  fishing  than 
any  man.  I  Ve  heard  people  say  that  one  of  these 
days  old  Methuselah  will  take  it  into  his  head  to 
start  fishing  for  men,  and  then  —  look  out!" 

Bamfield  all  this  time  was  selecting  and  adjust 
ing  a  fresh  worm.  "I  have  no  wish  to  boast,"  he 
remarked,  "but  I  will  merely  ask  you  to  defer 
judgment  for  a  time.  I  content  myself  for  the 
present  with  pointing  out  that  I  have  set  myself 
the  task  of  landing  Gloomy  Jeroboam.  I  may 
possibly  have  something  to  report  in  a  day  or  so." 
Stooping  cautiously  on  hands  and  knees,  he  began 


The  Caravan  Man  141 

to  lower  the  bait  into  the  pond.  It  needed  both 
skill  and  care  to  manoeuvre  it  into  the  exact  spot 
he  desired  to  reach,  and  engrossed  on  this  task,  he 
lost  touch  for  a  second  or  so  with  Rose.  He  did  not 
therefore  see  her  sudden  start,  her  swift  step  back 
wards,  her  fleet  disappearance  behind  the  shelter 
of  the  caravan,  nor  catch  the  word  of  warning 
flung  hastily  at  him,  "My  aunt  —  here  she  comes! 
I  must  hide!"  Unconscious  of  the  loss  of  his 
auditor,  he  continued  complacently  to  address  her 
over  his  shoulder. 

"  I  concede  Musty  Ezekiel  all  the  artfulness  you 
claim  for  him;  I  merely  put  forward  the  proposi 
tion  that  the  brain  of  man  is  superior  to  that  of  a 
fish,  and  a  contest  between  the  two  can  end  only 
in  one  way.  Of  course,  if  you  treat  fishing  as  a 
mere  lark,  you  are  inviting  disappointment.  I  tell 
you  what"  —  he  had  now  adjusted  his  line  in  the 
pond  as  he  wanted  it  —  "  don't  you  think  we  might 
get  hold  of  a  day's  fishing  together?  Don't  you 
think  that  would  be  awfully  jolly?"  He  turned  as 
he  spoke,  to  address  Rose  directly  — 

So  far,  nothing  in  this  story  has  offered  any  direct 
description  of  Aunt  Anne.  In  brief  it  may  be  said 
here  that  Miss  Grampette  —  Anne  Grampette  — 
was  tall,  forty-seven,  and  stood  no  nonsense  from 
anybody.  Bamfield  felt  that  at  the  first  glance.  'J 

"Good-morning,"  he  said.  "Er  —  excuse  me  — 
er  —  but —  it's  a  little  embarrassing — " 


142  The  Caravan  Man 

*  "Not  in  the  least,"  said  Anne  Grampette. 
"Nothing,"  she  added,  "embarrasses  me."  This 
was  nearly  true. 

"I  meant  me,"  explained  Bamfield,  resigning 
himself  to  the  inevitable.  "You  want  to  speak  to 
me?"  he  enquired,  with  his  invariable  politeness. 

"Yes,"  she  answered.  "In  reference  to  the 
photographs  you  take." 

"You  want  me  to  take  some  photographs?" 

Anne  Grampette's  simple  directness  was  never 
displayed  to  better  advantage. 

"  I  want  you  not  to  take  photographs.  I  want  you 
to  stop  taking  photographs  in  this  neighbourhood." 

"I  —  I  —  beg  your  pardon ? "  replied  the  startled 
Bamfield. 

"We  don't  approve  of  them,"  said  Miss  Gram 
pette.  She  did  not  explain  who  "we"  were,  but  it 
was  unnecessary.  She  herself  was  as  important 
and  her  wishes  as  conclusive  as  quite  a  wide- 
embracing  "we."  "We  look  upon  it  as  a  quite 
unnecessary  extravagance  among  the  class  of 
people  you  cater  for." 

Bamfield  was  still  polite.  "Excuse  me,"  he  re 
turned,  "if  I  don't  quite  grasp  this.  Do  you  really 
feel  that  it  matters  so  much  if  people  have  their 
photographs  taken ?"  ..-.,...  .  v 

Miss  Grampette  had  it  all  ready  for  him.  "We 
consider  the  individual  photograph  to  be  an  exhibi 
tion  of  childish  vanity,  and  therefore  immoral." 


The  Caravan  Man  143 

"Immoral!  Oh,  come,  I  say — "  remonstrated 

Bamfield. 

"Immoral,"  insisted  Miss  Grampette.  "A  com 
bined  group,  perhaps  "  —  this  she  conceded  with  a 
fine  charity  —  "  such  as  the  Sunday-School  Ex 
cursion,  or  the  Mothers'  Annual  Outing,  or  the 
Men's  Mutual  Improvement  Society.  But  we  de 
precate  the  encouragement  of  an  undue  sense 
of  personal  importance  in  the  humbler  walks  of 
life." 

Bamfield  drew  a  deep  breath.  Anything  quite 
like  this  he  had  not  met  before.  His  fine  manners 
wilted  a  trifle. 

"Apart  from  that,"  went  on  the  lady,  "Mr. 
Bapkin,  our  organist,  and  headmaster  at  the 
parish  schools,  is  quite  able  to  carry  out  any 
photographic  work  that  is  unavoidable  in  the 
neighbou  rhood . ' ' 

Bamfield's  politeness,  though  stricken  grievously, 
still  raised  its  head  from  the  dust. 

"It  seems  a  very  select  neighbourhood,"  he  ven 
tured,  with  what  he  hoped  was  an  ingratiating 
smile. 

"There  are  a  number  of  people,  mostly  ladies 
like  myself,  who  have  a  proper  sense  of  duty  to 
wards  their  humbler  neighbours." 

"How  jolly,"  said  Bamfield,  "to  live  here  always 
and  be  a  humble  neighbour!  But  —  do  you  know 
how  much  I  charge?" 


1 44  The  Caravan  Man 

"It  is  a  matter  of  principle,  not  of  cost,"  re 
turned  Miss  Grampette  loftily. 

"But  five  shillings  a  dozen  —  think  of  it,  my 
dear  lady!"  remonstrated  Bamfield.  "Come;  you 
can't  get  much  immorality  for  five  shillings,  you 
know."  Miss  Grampette's  lips  compressed  further. 
"Let  me  show  you."  He  ran  over  to  the  caravan 
and  came  back  with  the  bundle  of  prints.  "There, 
now!"  He  spread  them  out  under  Miss  Gram 
pette's  nose.  "  I  '11  ask  you,  could  photographs  like 
these  encourage  anybody's  sense  of  personal 
importance?" 

"  I  don't  feel  called  upon  to  express  any  opinion 
on  the — "  began  his  visitor,  and  then  stopped 
abruptly  as  he  dealt  the  prints  over  like  a  pack  of 
cards.  She  pounced  on  one;  her  eyes  opened. 
"What  is  this?  My  niece?" 

Bamfield's  most  exquisite  manner  flashed  to  the 
forefront  on  the  instant.  A  smile  in  which  respect 
ful  admiration  and  gratification  vied  for  expression 
in  friendly  contest  suffused  his  ingenuous  face. 

"Oh,  are  you  Miss  Grampette?"  He  held  his 
hand  out.  "How  do  you  — " 

The  young  man  actually  seemed  to  think  that 
Miss  Grampette  was  going  to  shake  hands  with 
him.  She  ignored  his  hand  and  eyed  him  stonily. 

"It  is  as  I  feared."  She  again  looked  darkly  at 
the  print  she  held  in  her  hand.  "But  after  what  I 
have  said  I  don't  think"  —  her  lips  curled  in  an 


The  Caravan  Man  145 

unpleasant  smile  —  "I  don't  think  that  she  is 
likely  to  be  seen  again  in  the  vicinity  of  this  cara 
van."  To  Bamfield's  horror,  as  she  said  it  she 
swung  round  and  deliberately  walked  towards  the 
standing  offence. 

Bamfield  shuddered  convulsively..  While  ad 
dressing  Miss  Grampette,  he  had  caught  a  glimpse 
first  of  Rose's  skirts,  then  of  her  face*  peeping  out 
from  behind  the  caravan.  Three  strides  of  Miss 
Grampette  would  bring  her  lurking-place  into  full 
view.  Two  were  taken  —  the  third  followed  —  al 
most  an  audible  sigh  of  relief  escaped  from  Bam 
field.  The  figure  of  Rose  came  into  view — under 
the  caravan!  Involved  in  imminent  catastrophe, 
with  barely  a  second's  warning,  she  had  instinc 
tively  taken  the  only  possible  course  to  save  her 
self —  she  had  dived  between  the  wheels.  Miss 
Grampette's  third  stride  came  uncompromisingly 
down  on  the  turf  as  the  tail-end  of  her  niece's  skirts 
whipped  into  their  place  of  concealment.  Bamfield 
breathed  relief.  So,  one  may  judge,  did  Rose. 

Miss  Grampette,  all  unaware  that  she  stood  on 
the  brink  of  a  great  discovery,  paused  to  continue 
her  remarks  to  Bamfield.  "May  I  ask  —  I  had 
better  understand  from  you  —  are  you  likely  to 
make  a  prolonged  stay  in  this  neighbourhood?" 

No  getting  round  her.  Bamfield  abandoned  the 
attempt. 

"It  depends  on  what  my  horse  says.   She's  de- 


146  The  Caravan  Man 

cided  to  lie  up  for  a  week  or  so.  She's  —  she's 
rather  a  neurotic  horse  —  has  queer  ideas  about 
her  near  hind  hoof — " 

He  stopped.  Miss  Grampette's  level  brows  told 
him  that  she  was  in  no  mood  for  feeble  jesting  of 
this  kind.  She  spoke  acidly. 

"While  you  stay  in  this  neighbourhood,  I  shall 
look  to  see  you  make  some  improving  use  of  your 
time.  Improvement  is  our  watchword  in  this 
parish.  There  are  several  admirable  societies  and 
leagues  which  will  guide  you  on  sound  lines.  Are 
you  married?" 

Bamfield  started  violently. 

"No,"  he  said,  very  loudly,  and  turned  red  — 
he  did  not  know  exactly  why. 

Miss  Grampette  eyed  him  keenly.  Again  Bam 
field  could  not  see  why.  He  guessed  it  had  some 
thing  to  do  with  his  blush  —  and  turned  redder 
than  ever. 

"Dash  it  all!"  he  reflected.  "This  awful  woman 
is  making  me  feel  nervous." 

Miss  Grampette  continued:  "Then  you  should 
take  a  special  interest  in  an  address  on  eugenics 
which  will  be  given  in  the  town  hall  to-morrow 
night,  at  seven-thirty." 

"This  is  most  kind,"  began  Bamfield,  "but — " 

She  cut  him  short.  "Name?" 

"Eh?" 

"Name?"  severely. 


The  Caravan  Man  147 

Bamfield  was  nervous.  "Bam  —  er — Jones,"  he 
jerked  out. 

"Christian  name?"  She  was  taking  it  all  down 
in  a  little  notebook. 

"George,"  Bamfield  answered,  then  corrected 
himself:  "No  —  James."  He  corrected  himself 
again:  "No  —  John." 

Miss  Grampette  held  her  pencil  stationary  and 
surveyed  him  coldly. 

"Christian  name?"  she  repeated,  in  her  iciest. 

"John,"  Bamfield  maintained.  She  accepted 
it  this  time. 

"Permanent  address?" 

Bamfield  was  less  docile.  "What  do  you  want 
my  permanent  address  for?"  he  asked  suspiciously. 

"I  propose  to  send  you  from  time  to  time  a 
selection  of  literature  suitable  to  your  age,  sex, 
and  class." 

"  I  have  n't  got  a  permanent  address,"  said 
Bamfield  with  decision. 

She  looked  at  him  darkly.  "No  permanent 
address?  How  do  I  find  you?" 

Under  the  stress  of  this  sort  of  thing  even  Bam 
field  was  slowly  stiffening. 

"Nicely,  thank  you,"  he  answered  flippantly. 
"How's  yourself?" 

She  snapped  her  notebook  together  and  slipped 
a  bit  of  elastic  round  it  with  a  look  expressive  of 
her  certainty  that  somewhere,  somewhen,  some- 


148  The  Caravan  Man 

how,  he  was  to  pay  for  that,  and  handed  him  a 
ticket. 

"Here  is  a  ticket."  He  had  to  take  it.  "No 
charge.  Row  B,  Number  8.  I  am  in  the  chair." 

Bamfield's  mild  flippancy  still  persisted.  "Re 
ally?  That  makes  it  so  tempting.  I  Ve  half  a  mind 
to  be  there." 

Anne  Grampette  prepared  to  let  loose  her  re 
maining  flood  upon  him  —  a  drowner. 

"I  should  strongly  advise  you  not  to  be  any 
where  else,"  she  remarked  in  her  most  detached 
manner  —  detached,  but  ominous. 

Bamfield  took  the  challenge.  "I  say,"  he  re 
marked  admiringly,  "you  really  ought  to  be 
chairman  of  the  parish  council!" 

It  came:  "I  am  chairman  of  the  parish  council." 

It  secured  every  bit  of  the  effect  she  expected. 
Bamfield's  mouth  opened  weakly. 

"Oh  —  er  —  ah — "was  all  he  could  offer. 

She  opened  the  floodgates  a  little  wider. 
"There  is  no  compulsion,  but  where  pressure  seems 
desirable  in  the  interest  of  any  particular  individ 
ual,  we  do  not  hesitate  to  apply  it." 

Bamfield  stood  up  to  it.  "Now  we're  coming 
to  it!  What  happens,  then,  if  I  don't  come?" 

The  first  of  the  remaining  double-handers  swung 
home.  "You  have  already  raised  the  point  that 
I  am  chairman  of  the  parish  council.  I  am,  there 
fore,  ex  qfficio,  a  member  of  the  highways  and 


The  Caravan  Man  149 

byways  committee,  which  is  charged  with  the 
care  of  the  common  on  which  your  caravan  is  now 
illegally  trespassing." 

"Tres  —  er  —  tres  —  But  I  —  but  you  — " 

The  second  followed,  and  all  was  over.  "If  I 
see  you  at  the  meeting,  I  may  not  feel  called  upon 
to  urge  any  immediate  action  with  regard  to  the 
indictable  offence  of  which  you  have  now  been 
guilty  for  just  upon  a  fortnight." 

She  waited  to  see  if  any  power  of  offence  or 
defence  remained.  No.  The  wreck  was  still  on  its 
feet,  but  obviously  shattered  beyond  further  feel 
ing.  With  a  majestic  sweep  of  the  eyelids  that  dis 
dained  him  further  notice,  Miss  Grampette  walked 
away. 

The  caravan  man  rallied  his  forces  and  for  the 
third  time  that  morning  set  about  his  shave. 


CHAPTER  IX 

ANNE  GRAMPETTE'S  visit  and  message 
had  so  impressed  Bamfield  that  he  actually 
forgot  Rose.  For  the  sake  of  that  respect  for  the 
dignity  of  womanhood  which  is  one  of  our  civiliza 
tion's  safeguards,  let  us  be  glad  of  it.  Her  crawl 
from  under  the  caravan  was  inevitably  ungraceful. 
Rose  herself  was  glad  that  Bamfield  did  not  see  her 
doing  it.  He  jumped  as  he  heard  her  voice  almost 
in  his  ear,  and  stopped  lathering  again. 

"You  see,"  said  Rose;  "you'll  have  to  go." 

"I  won't." 

"But  if  they  prosecute  you  — " 

"Let  'em.  I  refuse  to  budge.  Is  this  Ingerland, 
my  Ingerland?  Mustn't  a  bloke  live,  lidy?  Give 
me  work  or  give  me  death!  I  shall  go  bankrupt 
soon.  Here's  this  costly  plant"  —  he  waved  his 
hand  at  the  caravan  —  "  standing  idle,  eating  its 
head  off.  I'm  going  round  Ouseton  soon  with  a 
couple  of  sandwich-boards.  'Be  good-natured  — 
patronize  art.'  'Order  another  half-dozen  photo 
graphs.  Give  me  some  fresh  sittings.' ): 

Rose  laughed.  "I  say,  you  are  a  worker!  You're 
sure  to  succeed,  you  know,  sooner  or  later." 

"I  beg  your  pardon?"  said  Bamfield  in  shocked 
surprise.  "I  beg  your  pardon —  'sooner  or  later'? 


The  Caravan  Man  151 

Do  you  wish  to  suggest  that  I  am  not  successful 
now?  Do  you  come  to  throw  my  failure  in  my 
wretched  teeth?" 

Rose  blushed.  "Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon!  That 
was  very  rude  of  me !  But  —  I  mean  —  just  going 
about  in  a  caravan,  taking  people's  photographs 
at  five  shillings  a  dozen  —  Ought  n't  you  to  have 
got  on  further?" 

"How?"  demanded  Bamfield. 

"Well  —  I  don't  know,  but  —  well,  for  instance, 
ought  n't  you  to  have  a  shop  somewhere?" 

"A  shop?  Why?" 

"It  would  be  a  sort  of  home  for  you." 

"I  see.  But  don't  you  think  this  caravan  is  a 
good  enough  home  for  me?" 

Rose  hesitated.  "Well,  I  thought  —  Most  men, 
you  know,  would  feel — " 

"I  know,"  broke  in  Bamfield.  "You  think  that 
most  men  would  feel  ashamed  of  going  about  in 
this  gipsy  fashion,  and  would  look  forward  with 
longing  to  a  shop,  with  a  name  over  it  —  just 
fancy,  I  have  n't  even  got  a  name-board  up  on  my 
caravan! — and  plate-glass  windows  with  gilt  let 
tering,  and  lamps  inside  —  perhaps"  —  he  went 
on  with  lowered  voice,  as  if  awestruck  by  a  glimpse 
of  a  new  and  great  idea — "perhaps  even  lamps 
outside!  Perhaps  even  a  man  outside ',  to  invite 
people  in  as  they  passed!"  He  looked  gloomily  at 
his  caravan.  "Oh,  why,"  he  asked,  with  a  touch  of 


152  The  Caravan  Man 

passionate  remonstrance  in  his  voice,  "why  have 
you  set  me  longing?  I  was  so  happy  in  my  humble 
caravan,  till  you  —  yes,  you  —  stole  into  my  Eden 
and  planted  the  seeds  of  discontent  in  my  heart!" 

Rose  chilled.  This  was  too  flagrant. 

"I  think  you  are  laughing  at  me,"  she  said  re 
proachfully.  "I  don't  choose  to  be  laughed  at. 
Good-morning." 

She  was  turning  away,  head  high,  when  Barn- 
field's  natural  voice,  eager  and  apologetic,  detained 
her. 

"Oh,  but  wait!  I'm  so  sorry!  I've  something 
to  show  you.  Do  wait  a  minute."  He  picked  up 
from  the  caravan  steps  the  bundle  of  prints  he  had 
shown  Miss  Grampette  and,  sorting  them  out, 
selected  two.  "There!"  He  offered  them  for  Rose's 
inspection. 

Rose  took  them  and  looked  pleased.  "How 
splendid!" 

"Do  you  think  so?"  said  Bamfield.  He  took 
them  from  her  and  tore  them  in  four. 

Rose  looked  alarmed.  "Whatever  did  you  do 
that  for?" 

"They  were  n't  good  enough  to  please  me  — 
that's  all,"  replied  Bamfield.  "I'm  going  to  ask 
you  to  sit  again." 

"Oh,  but  I  ought  to  tell  you,"  said  Rose,  "I 
hardly  see  how  I  can.  I  ought  not  to  be  speaking 
to  you.  My  aunt  forbade  it." 


The  Caravan  Man  153 

"Did  she?"  said  Bamfield.  "Well,  I  half  guessed 
as  much." 

"I'm  so  sorry  —  "  Rose  hesitated. 

"Oh,  it's  all  right,"  said  Bamfield,  "She  did  n't 
hurt  me.  But,  I  say,  why  won't  she  let  you  speak 
tome?" 

Rose  felt  embarrassed.  "I  don't  quite  know 
how  to  put  it,"  she  said,  looking  distressed.  "  She 
says,  and  so  does  my  grandmother,  that  I  ought 
not  to  be  here  at  all.  I  —  I  have  been  rather  a  lot, 
have  n't  I  ? "  she  asked,  frankly  admitting  her 
wrongdoing. 

"Well,  I  don't  see  it."  Bamfield  thought  of  a 
plausible  excuse  for  her,  for  him,  for  them  both. 
"You  wanted  your  photograph  taken,  and  I  under 
took  to  do  it,  and  I've  had  bad  luck  —  that's  all. 
It's  meant  a  lot  of  sitting  —  a  lot  of  trouble  for 
you,  of  course — " 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Rose  politely  —  and  truth 
fully. 

"  So  that  you  are  n't  in  the  least  to  blame." 

"Well,  but,  apart  from  that — "  she  began,  and 
stopped. 

"Apart  from  that?" 

"I  hardly  know  how  to  say  it.  You  see,  I  look 
upon  you  as  quite —  quite  an  intelligent  man — " 

"You  are  awfully  good,"  said  Bamfield  grate 
fully. 

"And  I  feel  that  in  speaking  to  you  I'm  not 


154  The  Caravan  Man 

doing  myself  any  harm,  and  —  it  —  might  do  you 
some  good." 

"That,"  explained  Bamfield,  "that  is  what  has 
been  uppermost  in  my  mind  all  the  time  —  the 
good  which  I  felt  your  conversation  might  do  me. 
In  fact,  it  has,  already.  I  sometimes  lie  and  won 
der  at  the  —  the  immense  improvement  that  is 
taking  place  in  me  —  imperceptible  to  outsiders, 
perhaps,  but  unmistakable  to  me.  And  if  you'd 
only  keep  on  —  even  your  aunt  will  be  sure  to 
notice  it  in  time.  You  have  n't  always  lived  with 
her,  have  you?"  he  asked,  dexterously  sweeping 
the  conversation  into  the  stream  which  he  felt 
would  float  them  both  along. 

"No,"  answered  Rose.  "Only  the  last  seven 
years.  Before  that,  we  lived  in  London." 

"We?" 

"My  father  and  I.  I  don't  remember  my  mother. 
Father  was  n't  very  well  off  most  of  the  time.  Only 
when  he  sold  a  picture." 
'    "Oh,  was  he  an  artist?" 

"Yes.  We  lived  together,  just  us  two,"  went 
on  Rose.  She  was  floating  along  as  the  cunning 
Bamfield  had  intended,  on  the  placid  stream  of 
general  conversation,  all  thought  of  her  aunt's 
interdict  lost  sight  of.  "We  had  an  old  studio 
somewhere  near  Primrose  Hill  in  London,  I  Ve  for 
gotten  exactly  where  —  a  big  barn  of  a  place,  with 
whitewashed  walls  and  a  roof  like  a  church.  One 


The  Caravan  Man  155 

day,  I  remember,  when  I  was  twelve  years  old, 
father  drew  me  on  the  wall  —  painted  me,  just  a 
quick  sketch,  with  my  hair  all  tumbling  over  my 
face  and  my  eyes  peeping  through — "  She  had 
noticed  Bamfield's  look  of  astonishment  and  now 
stopped.  He  was  staring  at  her  queerly.  "Why 
are  you  looking  at  me — " 

He  was  indeed.  The  thing  had  come  upon  him 
with  an  unexpectedness  that  swept  him  off  his 
feet.  Day  by  day,  with  at  times  a  feeling  almost 
of  uneasiness,  he  had  felt  the  charm  of  this  girl 
growing  on  him.  At  first  she  was  just  a  piece  of 
juvenile  femininity  of  unusual  grace  and  a  face 
rare  in  shape,  colour,  poise,  and  —  particularly 
noticeable  —  large  grey  eyes.  Then  the  frankness, 
the  innocence,  the  strange  air  of  comradeship  grad 
ually  allowed  to  exhibit  itself  as  she  grew  used  to 
talking  to  him  had  brought  with  it  an  immense 
satisfaction.  In  the  evenings,  smoking  by  his  fire, 
his  thoughts  invariably  turned  to  her,  and  he  was 
used  to  survey  himself  with  something  of  amused 
disdain  at  their  wanderings. 

And  inevitably  —  he  recognized  it  now  —  his 
thoughts  had  always  linked  Rose  up  in  the  queerest 
fashion  with  the  picture  on  the  wall  at  Primrose 
Hill.  What  a  blockhead  he  had  been!  He  had 
noticed  a  likeness,  particularly  when,  at  some 
extravagance  in  speech  of  his,  her  grey  eyes  had 
rested  half  puzzled,  half  amused,  wholly  fearless, 


156  The  Caravan  Man 

on  his,  yet  till  this  moment  no  glimpse  of  the  truth 
had  opened  to  him. 

"Studio  at  Primrose  Hill!"  murmured  Bamfield 
more  to  himself  than  to  Rose.  "The  face  on  the 
wall!" 

"Yes,"  said  Rose,  "and  father  said  he  was  sure 
that  the  next  man  that  took  the  studio  would  want 
to  know  who  the  girl  was,  and  would  go  search 
ing  for  her.  But  nobody  does,"  she  concluded, 
pulling  the  corners  of  her  mouth  down  in  mock 
sadness. 

Bamfield  walked  over  to  her.  "Have  you  such  a 
thing  as  a  pin  about  you?"  he  asked.  Rose,  star 
tled,  produced  one.  "Would  you  mind,"  continued 
Bamfield,  pulling  up  his  coat-sleeve  and  the  wrist 
of  his  shirt  and  displaying  his  bare  forearm,  "would 
you  mind  just  sticking  it  in  here?  Ow!"  as  Rose 
did  as  requested.  He  pulled  down  his  cuff  and  coat- 
sleeve  again.  "Thank  you." 

"Whatever  is  it?"  asked  the  puzzled  Rose. 

"Nothing  at  all  —  really  nothing.  I  find  I'm 
wide  awake."  He  laughed.  "Go  on.  Tell  me  some 


more." 


"Soon  after  that,"  said  Rose  sadly,  "my  father 
died." 

Bamfield  looked  his  sympathy.  "Then  you  came 
here?" 

"Yes.  Sometimes  I  wish  I'd  been  a  year  or  two 
older  and  able  to  get  a  living  for  myself,  as  some 


The  Caravan  Man  157 

girls  do.  You  know,  my  aunt  does  n't  like  me. 
Sometimes  I  wish  I  could  go  and  find  the  old 
studio  at  Primrose  Hill  again,  and  knock  at  the 
door,  and  when  the  nice  old  man  that  lives  there — " 

"Old?"  interjected  Bamfield  hastily,  as  if  re 
monstrating.  "I  say,  why  old?" 

"Oh,  yes  —  old,  nice,  and  white-haired,"  de 
cided  Rose,  "  like  my  father.  I  should  n't  like  a 
young  man  to  have  it,  somehow  —  our  old  studio." 

"Sorry,"  murmured  Bamfield.  For  a  second 
something  further  hovered  on  his  lips,  but  he 
checked  it,  and  Rose  continued:  — 

"Then  perhaps  he'd  let  me  live  there,  and  I'd 
cook  for  him  — I  can  cook  —  and  I'd  dust  and 
sweep  and  keep  everything  nice  and  tidy,  and  if  he 
got  worried,  I  'd  sit  and  talk  to  him  and  make  him 
laugh,  as  I  used  to  do  to  father.  I  say,  you  do 
stare!" 

"Do  I?"  Bamfield  was  thinking  deeply. 

Rose  was  sitting  on  one  of  the  great  limbs  of  the 
tree's  roots.  Bamfield  brought  over  his  stand  cam 
era.  The  girl  was  in  a  day-dream,  her  thoughts 
away  in  the  whitewashed  studio  at  Primrose  Hill. 
Bamfield  was  chuckling  to  himself.  "Dashed 
funny!"  he  said  to  himself,  but  his  heart  was 
beating  fast.  He  got  the  camera  into  position  and 
focused  her  in  the  screen,  pulling  the  velvet  cloth 
over  his  head  in  the  regulation  fashion.  Rose 
hardly  noticed  him. 


158  The  Caravan  Man 

"I  say,  turn  sideways,  will  you?"  said  Barn- 
field  suddenly. 

She  started.  "I  don't  think  I  ought  to  —  really, 
you  can't  possibly  afford  to  take  all  these  photos 
for  five  shillings,  and  I  can't  afford  any  more.  Be 
sides  —  besides"  —  she  stood  up,  her  voice  full  of 
regrets  —  "I  ought  not  to  be  here.  They  told  me 
not  to  come.  I  must  go.  Send  on  my  prints  when 
they're  done,  will  you?" 

Bamfield  came  out  from  under  the  cloth.  He 
was  n't  going  to  have  this  —  not  in  this  way,  at 
any  rate. 

"I  say,"  he  said,  speaking  seriously,  "are  n't  you 
really  going  to  speak  to  me  any  more?" 

Rose  was  as  serious  as  he.  "I  mustn't,"  she 
said,  unsmiling. 

They  were  both  desperately  grave. 

"It's  a  shame!"  —  Bamfield  thought  hard;  then: 
"Look  here!  Wait  a  minute.  I  passed  the  Priory 
this  morning  between  four  and  five  o'clock,  and, 
do  you  know,  there's  a  part  of  that  big  stone  barn 
quite  near  the  house  — " 

"I  know,"  said  Rose.  "There's  a  part  that's 
very  old." 

"Yes,"  said  Bamfield.  "Early  Norman,  I'm 
sure.  I  mean  it.  You  find  things  like  that  some 
times  —  real  old  stuff  still  standing  as  part  of  a 
quite  modern  building.  And  I  believe  there's  more 
to  be  found  about  the  Priory  if  we  looked  about. 


The  Caravan  Man  159 

Well,  now,  would  n't  your  aunt  like  to  have  some 
photographs  made  of  the  place  by  a  man  who 
knows  a  lot  about  Norman  architecture?" 

Rose  sparkled.  "Do  you?" 

"I  do."  Rose  was  agleam,  Bamfield  alert  and 
smiling.  Schemes  formed  in  his  brain.  "  I  tell  you 
what  —  I  '11  come  over  this  afternoon,  and  bring 
my  camera  and  take  photos.  You'll  come  and 
watch  me,  won't  you?" 

"If  I  can  —  if  they'll  let  me."  Rose  was  de 
lighted. 

"What  time  do  you  finish  lunch?" 

"About  two  o'clock." 

"  I  '11  be  over  directly  afterwards.  And  I  'm  going 
to  get  on  your  aunt's  right  side.  Ask  me  to  tea." 

Rose's  face  fell  from  eager  anticipation  to  dis 
tress. 

" I'm  afraid— " 

"What?  Must  n't  you?" 

She  flushed.  "I'm  afraid,"  she  explained  un 
willingly,  "they  might  ask  you  to  tea  —  in  the 
kitchen." 

Bamfield  laughed.  "Oho!  Never  mind.  You 
leave  that  to  me.  I  tell  you  what"  —  a  new  idea 
danced  through  him —  "Will  you  come  and  have 
tea  with  me  here  —  say  to-morrow  afternoon  ? " 

Rose's  teeth  flashed  in  a  smile  as  she  replied: 
"  I  'd  love  to,  but  I  dare  n't.  And,  anyhow,  we  have 
some  people  coming  to  tea  to-morrow  afternoon." 


160  The  Caravan  Man 

Bamfield's  idea  had  now  taken  possession  of 
him.  He  varied  it  at  once  to  suit  the  difficulty. 

"Then  come  to  supper  to-night!  There,  now  — 
I  dare  you!  I'll  have  supper  by  eight  o'clock,  if 
you  dare  to  slip  away.  I  '11  have  my  fire  going,  and 
I'll  cook  you  the  dinkiest  supper  out  here  in  the 
open — " 

The  wild-woman-of-the-woods  that  lurks  in 
every  true  female  breast  roused  to  life  in  Rose  at 
the  thought. 

"Oh,"  she  breathed,  "if  I  dared!" 

"Dare!"  Bamfield  adjured  her,  in  just  that  tone 
of  challenge  and  urge  that  from  the  right  man  to 
the  right  woman  is  irresistible.  "Dare!  You're 
not  afraid  of  me —  are  you?" 

"Not  a  bit,"  she  said  frankly.  "I  think  you're 
quite  —  quite  nice." 

"You've  splendid  taste,"  Bamfield  announced, 
heartily  commendatory.  "Make  up  your  mind. 
Say  you'll  come." 

Rose  hesitated,  thrilling.  The  wild-woman-of- 
the-woods  tore  at  her.  She  must  come  —  oh,  she 
must! 

"Could  I  be  home  by  nine?"  was  her  last  diffi 
culty. 

"Absolutely  without  fail."  Bamfield's  confi 
dence  closed  on  her,  binding  her  down  to  an  irre 
vocable  step.  "That's  settled,  then." 

"No,  no,"  she  objected,  frightened  at  his  un- 


The  Caravan  Man  1 6 1 

principled  rushing  of  any  last  defences  she  might 
have  had. 

"Right!"  he  returned,  with  brass-fronted  assur 
ance.  "That 's  a  promise.  I  '11  just  shave,  and  then 
cycle  into  the  village  and  get  some  more  plates  for 
my  camera.  And  when  I  come,  you  must  come  and 
help  me.  You  know  how  a  camera  works,  don't  you  ? " 

"No,  I  don't,"  said  Rose.  "I  know  you  take  a 
cap  off,  and  I  know  you  get  under  a  cloth  and  walk 
the  thing  about  on  its  legs,  but  what  for  I  Ve  never 
understood." 

"You  must  learn,"  said  Bamfield.  "Then  you 
really  could  help  me.  I  mean  without  any  humbug. 
Have  n't  you  ever  looked  into  the  focusing  glass?" 

"Never." 

"Then  have  a  look  now.  Come  on." 

Over  to  him  she  stepped.  Bamfield  uncapped 
the  lens,  put  in  the  focusing  glass,  held  up  the 
black  cloth.  Rose  stooped  down;  he  popped  its 
fold  over  her  —  and  over  himself.  There  they 
were,  close  together,  their  heads  and  shoulders  in 
close  contact  under  the  cloth.  Bamfield  altered  the 
point  of  view.  To  do  so,  he  had  to  pass  his  arm 
round  Rose's  waist  to  grasp  the  spidery  legs  of  the 
camera.  Rose  blushed  in  the  darkness. 

"Now,"  said  Bamfield,  "can  you  see?" 

"It's  very  queer,"  she  answered. 

"No,  it's  all  right.  It's  the  pond  and  the  com 


mon." 


1 6  2  The  Caravan  Man 

She  was  puzzled.  "I  can't  make  it  out —  Oh, 
I  see!  Everything's  upside  down!" 

Bamfield  laughed.  "Of  course  —  didn't  you 
know  that?  Everything's  wrong  way  up  when 
you  see  it  through  the  lens." 

"Well,  how  was  I  to  know  that?" 

"Of  course.  I  ought  to  have  told  you.  Can  you 
see  it  now?" 

She  squirmed  a  little  sideways  to  try  and  get  a 
more  naturalistic  view  of  the  brilliant  image, 
sparkling  and  shifting  in  the  ground-glass  screen. 
Bamfield  again  moved  the  camera  around  —  that 
is  to  say,  he  again  placed  his  arm  around  Rose's 
waist  to  reach  the  camera  legs.  He  kept  it  there, 
moving  the  camera  around  from  point  to  point, 
delighting  her  with  the  panorama  of  pictures 
sweeping  across  the  screen  as  the  camera  turned  . . . 

"Good  Heavens!  It's  Rose!  Rose!" 

Rose  and  Bamfield  came  out  from  under  the 
cloth  as  if  a  chastising  hand  from  the  clouds  had 
descended  upon  them.  Rose's  hat  was  pushed 
rakishly  aside;  Bamfield's  hair,  never  very  tidy,  was 
swept  in  a  dissipated  heap  across  his  eyes ;  both  were 
startled.  Rose,  telling  herself  furiously  that  she 
was  innocent,  felt  that  she  looked  guilty.  Of  what, 
in  Heaven's  name?  Nothing  —  and  yet  — 

Two  paces  away  stood  two  ladies  —  one,  Aunt 
Anne;  the  other  —  Bamfield  saw  in  a  flash  that 
this  must  be  "Granny." 


The  Caravan  Man  163 

She  was  Rose's  height;  she  was  eighty  at  least; 
she  was  skinny,  tough,  energetic,  brown-eyed,  and 
a  most  imposing  figure.  In  her  dress  she  was  a 
joy  to  Bamfield.  She  was  clothed  in  the  style 
affected  by  ladies  round  about  the  year  1860.  On 
her  head  was  a  dark-green  coal-scuttle  bonnet, 
round  her  shoulders  an  admirable  Paisley  shawl; 
her  ample  gown  was  extended  from  her  wiry  and 
agile  figure  by  a  large  crinoline;  she  wore  white 
stockings  —  displayed  well  above  the  ankle  —  and 
spring-sided  boots,  and  the  slightly  frilled  ends  of 
a  pair  of  long  white  linen  trousers  glinted  coyly  at 
the  beholder.  She  carried  a  fat  green  umbrella, 
holding  it  in  just  the  manner  you  would  expect  — 
that  is,  with  its  ferrule  concealed  by  her  hands,  fold 
ed  over  one  another  at  the  region  of  her  waist,  while 
its  head  sloped  upward  across  her  left  upper  arm. 

Rose  spoke:  "Granny,  this  is  Mr.  Jones.  He  is 
taking  my  photograph." 

The  old  lady  looked  grimly  at  Bamfield.  "Tak 
ing  your  photograph !  Was  that  what  he  was  doing 
when  I  saw  you  just  now?" 

"Saw  me  just  now,  Granny?  When?" 

"When  I  came  here  this  very  second  and  found 
you  endeavouring  to  conceal  yourself  under  that 
cloak  or  whatever  it  is,  with  this  man's  arm  round 
your  waist?" 

Rose  blushed.  Bamfield  endeavoured  to  draw 
the  lightning  to  himself.  He  raised  his  hat  —  no, 


164  The  Caravan  Man 

he  had  forgotten  —  he  was  n't  wearing  one,  but  he 
raised  his  hair  from  his  forehead  and  assumed  what 
he  hoped  might  pass  for  a  photographer's  profes 
sional  manner. 

"I  was  explaining  the  working  of  a  lens,"  he 
said.  "The  working  of  a  lens  is  a  rather  technical 
matter  very  few  people  really  understand.  If  you 
think  it  would  be  of  any  interest  to  you — "  he 
went  on  diffidently.  He  held  up  the  fringe  of  his 
black  cloth  invitingly. 

Granny  stiffened,  but  gave  him  no  reply  beyond 
a  withering  glance.  Rose  stood  with  clasped  hands 
innocent,  but  awkward.  The  faint  and  formless 
questionings  of  the  past  week  had  not  yet  borne 
fruit.  Rose,  with  the  heart  of  a  lioness  within  her, 
was  still  a  timid  thing  in  the  presence  of  her  aunt 
and  her  grandmother. 

Bamfield  had  a  shot  at  Aunt  Anne.  "I'm  so 
glad  to  see  you  again,"  he  ventured,  with  what  he 
hoped  was  a  successful  attempt  to  look  delighted. 
"I  wanted  to  say  you  were  quite  right  about  that 
promiscuous  photography." 

"Indeed?"  from  Aunt  Anne. 

"And  as  regards  to-morrow  night,"  went  on 
Bamfield,  "I  shouldn't  think  of  missing  the  lec 
ture.  It  will  be  awfully"  —  awfully  what,  he  won 
dered? —  "jolly,  I've  no  doubt." 

Jolliness,  even  in  perspective,  evidently  did  not 
appeal  to  the  chairman  of  the  parish  council. 


The  Caravan  Man  165 

"Indeed?"  was  again  all  she  vouchsafed. 

Even  now  Bamfield  did  not  give  in.  "I  had  been 
wondering,"  he  tried,  "if  I  might  take  a  few  photo 
graphs  at  the  Priory.  I  have  noticed — " 

"Certainly  not,"  said  Aunt  Anne. 

Bamfield  went  on  rapidly:  "I  had  noticed  several 
distinctly  interesting  bits  of  architecture  about  the 
place  —  Early  Norman,  some  of  it  —  and  I  was 
hoping — " 

"No,"  said  Aunt  Anne. 

"  —  Was  hoping  that  I  might  get  permission  to 
make  a  negative — " 

"  I  have  already  told  you  our  feeling  with  regard 
to  your  photography." 

A  slight  perspiration  made  its  appearance  on 
Bamfield's  brow.  The  day  was  hot  —  and  his  task 
was  a  hard  one. 

"  I  hope  you  won't  think  me  too  persistent,  but 
it's  rather  a  hobby  of  mine  —  Early  Norman 
architecture — " 

"We  prefer  to  preserve  the  Priory  from  intru 


sion." 


"Of  course  —  quite  so.  The  charm  of  these  old 
houses  is  their  privacy." 

"Distinctly,"  said  Aunt  Anne;  and  even  Bam 
field's  persistence  paused  to  draw  breath.  She 
waited  with  malicious  pleasure  to  slash  off  its  head 
when  it  next  ventured  to  raise  itself  from  the  dust. 
Rose  stood  writhing  at  her  rudeness.  Granny,  all 


1 66  The  Caravan  Man 

this  time —  But  no.  Granny's  occupation  must 
be  disclosed  later. 

Bamfield  turned  up  his  last  card,  or,  rather,  he 
endeavoured  to  do  so. 

"Forgive  me  —  it's  purely  a  personal  matter, 
but  I  'm  not  —  excuse  my  dragging  it  in  —  but  — 
this  photography,  you  know  —  it's  not  really  — 
In  a  way  I  'm  —  I  'm  sailing  under  false  colours  — " 

Aunt  Anne  swept  his  card  off  the  table  without 
deigning  to  look  at  it. 

"  I  am  not  surprised  —  and  I  am  not  interested, 
either.  And  in  any  case,  we  decline  to  admit  you 
to  the  Priory." 

He  gave  it  up.  Only  for  the  present,  he  told 
himself,  but  this  odious  woman  was  too  terrible 
for  words.  She  should  not  defeat  him  finally  — 
that  he  swore;  but  for  the  moment  he  confessed 
she  had  him  beaten.  He  drew  a  long  breath  and 
looked  at  Rose.  Anne  turned  away  triumphant. 
Granny  took  Rose's  hand  in  hers,  Anne  ranged  up 
on  her  other  side,  Rose  threw  Bamfield  a  glance  of 
shame  and  apology,  and  the  three  women  moved 
away. 

For  an  instant  the  primitive  being  that  lurked 
in  Bamfield's  mental  background  urged  him  sav 
agely  to  rush  forward,  seize  Rose,  wrench  her  away, 
lift  her  into  his  caravan,  and  drive  the  others  away 
with  spear  or  club.  But  in  that  same  instant 
came  something  else  that  robbed  the  moment  of 


The  Caravan  Man  167 

every  tinge  of  bitterness.  Quite  simply  it  signalled 
to  him,  "All  this  is  nothing,  this  'good-bye'  to  her. 
Ask  yourself,  is  it  possible?  Does  n't  every  instinct 
in  you  tell  you  with  infallible  certainty  that  you 
and  she  cannot  possibly  part  like  this  ?  Don't  you 
know,  are  n't  you  certain  in  yourself,  that  you  two 
will  meet  and  talk  again?"  And  with  a  great  in 
ward  laugh  of  pleasure,  he  gave  himself  the  confi 
dent  answer,  "Yes." 

She  was  gone.  He  backed,  still  looking  after  her, 
towards  the  caravan  steps,  where  his  shaving-mug, 
brush,  and  razor  were  waiting  to  fulfil  their  purpose 
of  the  day.  His  shaving-water  was  cold.  He  de 
cided  to  use  it  as  it  was,  and  in  a  few  seconds  had 
covered  his  chin  with  the  cold  lather.  He  perched 
his  fragment  of  looking-glass  on  the  steps,  opened 
his  razor  — 

At  that  moment  a  bicycle  rounded  the  caravan, 
pulled  up  short,  and  Bertha  Babbage  jumped  off 
and  offered  him  a  telegram,  with  the  remark, 
"Bamfield,  Caravan,  Ouseton-under-Mere —  Is 
that  right?" 

Bamfield  took  the  telegram,  opened  the  envel 
ope,  took  out  the  form  inside,  ignored  it,  and 
stared  at  Bertha  Babbage. 

Bertha  Babbage  was  tall,  broad-shouldered, 
broad-hipped,  long-armed,  long-legged,  handsome, 
fearless  as  an  Amazon.  She  was  the  assistant  post 
mistress  at  Ouseton;  she  earned  thirty  shillings  a 


1 6  8  The  Caravan  Man 

week  and  kept  herself  on  it.  Perhaps  that  was  why 
it  took  an  eye  like  Bamfield's  to  comprehend  all 
her  excellence.  It  is  true  that  she  had  grace  with 
out  slenderness,  strength  without  coarseness,  bulk 
with  long  lines  that  spoke  of  the  utmost  harmony 
of  structure,  the  bosom  of  a  goddess.  But  a  skirt 
none  too  well-cut,  a  ready-made  blouse,  a  hat 
nearing  the  end  of  possible  service  even  for  busi 
ness  purposes,  shoes  bought  for  economy  —  these 
gave  a  suggestion  of  clumsiness  that  undiscerning 
minds  accepted.  Yet  her  poise  was  firmness  itself, 
the  carriage  of  her  head  on  her  great  neck  imperial. 
Her  mass  of  fair  hair  was  first  plaited,  then  wound 
round  the  crown  of  her  head  in  fashion  half  Greek, 
half  Scandinavian. 

A  shop-girl,  most  of  her  waking  existence 
bounded  by  the  shop's  horizon,  she  had  acquired 
that  easy  and  casual  confidence  necessary  to  a 
woman  so  situated.  For  any  girl  shop-life  means 
dirty  weather,  and  therefore  she  assumes  a  bold 
and  challenging  frankness,  for  the  same  reason  that 
her  more  happily  situated  sister  puts  on  at  times  a 
mackintosh  and  a  rainy-day  skirt.  It's  the  sensible 
wear. 

It  was  the  artist,  not  the  man,  that  stared  at  her 
beyond  the  limits  of  good  manners.  Bertha  never 
turned  a  hair.  She  was  used  to  such  small  rude 
nesses. 

"Any  answer?"  she  queried. 


The  Caravan  Man  169 

Bamfield  jerked  himself  back.  He  wiped  the 
lather  from  his  face. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said  with  sincerity,  and 
read  the  wire.  It  ran :  — 

Just  found  out  where  you  are.  May  I  come  and  talk 
business?  —  Iffelstein. 

"Got  a  form?"  asked  Bamfield.  Bertha  pro 
duced  a  blank  telegraph  form.  "Thanks,"  said 
Bamfield.  He  found  a  pencil,  wrote  a  reply,  and 
handed  it  to  Bertha.  "How  much?"  he  asked. 

Bertha  took  the  form,  read  it  over,  smiled,  and 
shook  her  head. 

"This  won't  do,"  she  said.  "We  could  n't  send 
this." 

"What's  wrong?"  asked  Bamfield. 

"Well,  this.  You  '11  have  to  put  something  else." 

"What  may  I  put?" 

"I  don't  know.  Put,  'No,  thank  you,'  not,  'No, 
damn  you.": 

"All  right." 

He  took  the  form  back  and  made  the  necessary 
alteration.  This  Bertha  accepted,  together  with 
the  amount  of  the  charge,  put  the  telegram  in  her 
pocket,  wheeled  her  bicycle  a  yard  or  so,  hesitated, 
looked  at  Bamfield  consideringly.  Then,  "I  say — " 
she  began,  and  stopped. 

"Yes?"  enquired  Bamfield. 

"I  suppose  that  telegram  was  all  right?  I  mean, 
I  thought  your  name  was  Jones." 


1 7  o  The  Caravan  Man 

"Trade  name,"  Bamfield  explained. 

Bertha  still  forbore  to  mount  and  ride.  Bam 
field  looked  her  over  admiringly.  She  caught  his 
eye  and  smiled  good-humou redly.  Bamfield  wanted 
to  talk  to  her. 

"Are  you  a  sample  of  the  telegraph-boys  about 
here?"  he  ventured. 

Bertha  accepted  the  chaff  and  the  implied  com 
pliment  quite  pleasantly. 

"We  have  only  one  at  Ouseton,  and  he  was  out, 
so  I  offered  to  run  up  with  your  telegram.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  I  particularly  wanted  to  speak  to 
you." 

"Yes?"  Bamfield  was  all  attention. 

"You  take  photos,  don't  you?"  Bertha  went  on. 
" Would  you  take  a  rather  special  one  of  me?" 

"Perhaps  I  could.  What's  the  'special'?" 

"You  don't  mind  my  telling  you?  I  want  a  very 
nice  one  —  in  evening  dress." 

"And  fine  you'd  look,  my  lady,"  thought  Bam 
field.  Aloud  he  said,  in  proper  businesslike  manner, 
"All  right.  Where?" 

"That's  it,"  said  Bertha.  "Could  you  do  it  up 
here?" 

"I  dare  say.  But  —  won't  you  look  rather  queer 
coming  up  here  in  evening  dress?" 

"Could  n't  I  come  after  dark?" 

"I  don't  quite  see  how  I  can  photo  you  after 
dark,"  Bamfield  told  her. 


'ARE  YOU  A  SAMPLE  OF  THE  TELEGRAPH-BOYS 
ABOUT  HERE?" 


The  Caravan  Man  171 

She  grew  downcast,  looked  at  Bamfield  again  as 
if  considering.  He  felt  that  there  was  something 
more  in  the  girl's  request  than  appeared  on  the 
surface. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked.  "I  don't  want  to  be 
curious,  you  know,  but  if  you  cared  to  tell  me  a 
little  more,  perhaps  I  might  be  able  to  help." 

"Well,  I  will  tell  you,"  said  Bertha,  wheeling 
her  machine  a  little  closer  and  dropping  her  voice 
as  she  made  her  modest  confidences.  "You  see, 
I  'm  engaged  —  or  as  good  as.  I  don't  know  why  — 
I  don't  really  even  like  him.  He's  an  architect 
here,  and  he's  been  very  nice,  I  must  say,  and  — 
somehow  —  you  know  how  it  happens  — " 

"I  know,"  said  Bamfield  encouragingly. 

"Well,  somehow,  the  more  I  thought  of  it,  the 
more  I  did  n't  like  it,  and  at  last  I  made  up  my 
mind  I  ought  to  tell  him.  I  meant  to  write  and  say 
I  wanted  to  give  him  up  —  when  I  'm  bothered  if 
he  did  n't  write  the  very  same  thing  to  me!" 

She  was  fair  enough.  It  was  the  humour  of  the 
thing  that  struck  her,  and  when  Bamfield  laughed, 
she  laughed  too,  a  hearty  "Ha!  ha!  ha!" 

"But  it  was  a  take-down  for  me,  wasn't  it?" 
she  went  on.  "Of  course  I  found  out  all  about  it. 
He's  been  running  up  to  London  a  good  deal,  and 
he 's  got  to  know  a  girl  —  an  actress,  he  calls  her, 
some  chorus-girl,  I  should  think.  She's  sent  him 
her  photo  —  I  know  all  about  it  from  his  sister  — 


172  The  Caravan  Man 

and  you  can  guess  what  she's  like.  It's  taken  in 
tights." 

"Oho!"  said  Bamfield  portentously. 

Bertha  laughed  again.  "Well,  I  won't  bemean 
myself,  but  I  Ve  seen  the  photograph  and  —  Well, 
I  don't  want  to  brag,  but  thinks  I,  'My  boy,  if  you 
only  knew!" 

She  looked  primly  at  Bamfield.  He  roared. 

"And  he  doesn't?"  Bertha's  glance  reproved 
him.  "I  beg  your  pardon,  but  I  thought  you  said 
you  were  engaged." 

"Well,  you  see  how  it  is.  I  don't  want  him  — 
only,  I  do  really  want  to  make  him  feel  sick  and 
sorry.  Of  course,"  she  went  on,  with  a  divine 
blush,  "  I  would  n't  —  I  could  n't  —  But,  thinks 
I,  'You  can  let  him  see  your  photo  in  evening  dress, 
and  —  well,  perhaps  that  will  make  him  open  his 
eyes  a  bit.' r 

Her  frankness  was  irresistible.  Bamfield  smoth 
ered  as  best  he  could  the  laugh  that  was  shaking 
him  inwardly. 

"I'll  help  you,"  he  said  decidedly.  "Got  the 
dress?" 

"No,"  said  Bertha,  "but  some  one  I  know  —  a 
lady's-maid  down  here  —  can  get  me  one  of  her 
mistress's  very  best.  Lady  Badderley-Boulger 
wears  the  most  tremendous  evening  frocks,  and 
she's  got  a  new  one  that's  a  dream.  I  know,  be 
cause  I've  tried  it  on  already  on  the  sly,  and  it 


The  Caravan  Man  173 

suits  me  —  really,  you  would  think  it  was  made  for 
me.  I  can  get  it  this  evening,  but  I  can't  get  away 
till  half-past  eight.  Now,  if  I  came  up  here  with  it 
on  —  she  can  lend  me  a  cloak  as  well  —  say  by 


nine — " 


"Nine!"  Bamfield  stopped  her.  "My  dear  girl, 
I  can't  photograph  by  moonlight." 

Bertha's  expressive  face  showed  the  keenness  of 
her  disappointment.  "Can't  you?  Are  you  sure? 
I  hoped  perhaps  you  could."  She  looked  at  him 
pleadingly.  "I  wish  you  could."  Another  look. 
"Have  n't  you  got  a  light  that  would  do? " 

"No." 

Bertha  sighed.  Bamfield  took  thought,  consider 
ing  her  all  the  while.  Her  pose  was  irresistible  — 
regret,  hope,  and  appeal  all  conveyed  in  the  droop 
of  the  head  and  the  upward  glance  of  the  eye. 

"Look  here  —  you're  sure  you  can't  get  here  in 
daylight?" 

"Certain." 

"Then  I'll  try  and  make  a  flashlight  of  you." 
She  sparkled.  "You  come  up —  When  did  you 
say?  Nine?  No,  that  won't  do.  I'm  engaged  till 
nine,  and  possibly  a  little  later,  this  evening;  say 
half-past  nine.  Any  one  coming  with  you?" 

"  I  don't  suppose  so." 

"Does  n't  matter.  Come  up,  ready  dressed,  and 
I  '11  get  hold  of  some  flash  powder  and  make  some 
pictures  of  you.  Come  at  half-past  nine." 


174  The  Caravan  Man 

Bertha  was  all  smiles.  "You  are  good!  How 
much  will  they  be?" 

"We'll  see.  Now,  are  you  sure  you're  com- 
ing?" 

"Rather!"  There  was  n't  a  doubt  about  it.  Miss 
Bertha  Babbage  had  no  intention  of  wasting  her 
chance.  She  put  one  foot  on  the  pedal  and  pre 
pared  to  mount.  "I  say,"  she  paused  to  add, 
"promise  me  not  to  tell  any  one  about  me.  People 
talk  in  the  country." 

"Not  a  soul  shall  know,"  Bamfield  assured 
her.  She  was  in  the  saddle  and  slowly  pedalling 
away,  glancing  at  him  with  the  greatest  friend 
liness  and  gratitude.  "We'll  make  that  fugitive 
youth  of  yours  want  to  kick  himself,"  called  Bam 
field. 

She  laughed  delightedly.  "Was  n't  it  cheek  of 
him?"  over  her  shoulder.  "Thanks  awfully." 

"Right-o!"  Bamfield  waved  his  hand. 

Bertha  stopped.  The  caravan  man,  as  if  seized 
with  a  sudden  insanity,  was  leaping  for  the  pond. 
Horror!  Suicide!  Bertha  fell  off  her  bicycle, 
picked  herself  up,  rubbed  her  knee,  ran  to  the 
bank —  It  was  all  right;  there  he  was,  rod  in  hand 
and  almost  dancing  with  excitement. 

"You  there!"  he  shouted.  "Give  me  a  hand! 
I  Ve  got  him!" 

"Got  who?"  she  panted. 

"Muddy  Jerusalem,  or  whatever  he's  called.   I 


The  Caravan  Man  175 

say,  run  up  into  my  caravan,  will  you?  —  look 
about;  you'll  see  a  landing-net.  Bring  it  here  and 
help.  Run!—" 

She  ran,  flew  up  the  steps,  caught  up  the  net 
which  she  saw  at  first  glance,  dashed  back  with 
long  strides. 

"Come  down  here,"  shouted  the  caravan  man, 
"and  do  what  I  tell  you!  Don't  fall  in,  and  keep 
cool." 

"One  of  us  had  better  keep  cool,"  reflected 
Bertha  —  but  wisely  kept  the  thought  to  herself. 

"Now,  then,  just  lower  the  net  below  the  sur 
face —  steady!  —  You  won't  snatch,  will  you?" 

"Won't  snatch  what?" 

"My  fish.  I've  got  him!  I  said  I  would.  Oho, 
my  beauty !  I  '11  just  let  him  feel  the  strain  — • 
sulky,  are  you  ?  Aha !  —  I  '11  work  him  over  to 
you  .  .  .  See  him?" 

Bertha  peered  into  the  depths  among  the  reeds. 
"I  can  see  something" 

"I'll  bring  him  up  to  the  top;  you  get  the  net 
under  him  and  lift  him,  deftly  and  surely  .  .  .  Wait 
.  .  .  Now,  Senile  Solomon  .  .  .  Up!" 

"Up"  it  was.  Bertha  saw  something  rising  to 
the  surface,  swept  the  net  under,  lifted,  swung  it 
onto  the  bank  .  .  . 

"Hah!"  she  croaked.  "Haha!  hahaha!  hahaha- 
ha!" 

"Haha!"  said  Bamfield  savagely.  "Laugh,  you 


176  The  Caravan  Man 

—  you  —  !"  His  native  politeness  saved  him  from 
a  bad  break. 

Bertha  dropped  the  net-handle,  and  with  tears 
of  laughter  blinding  her  began  to  grope  for  the 
handles  of  her  bicycle. 

Bamfield  slowly  began  to  disentangle  the  net 
from  his  dripping  carpet-sweeper  .  .  . 

He  succeeded,  held  it  up,  began  to  tilt  the  water 
from  it.  His  eye  lit  on  Bertha.  She  felt  it  was  as 
much  as  her  life  was  worth  to  laugh  again.  She 
began  to  wheel  her  bicycle  away.  "Look  out 
where  you're  coming!"  said  a  voice  sharply. 
Through  wet  eyes  she  glimpsed  a  figure  in  grey, 
holding  a  large  bouquet  of  assorted  flowers.  It 
was  female,  coy,  yet  with  something  of  that  air  of 
independence  and  self-confidence  that  dawns  so 
swiftly  in  the  average  woman  after  the  wedding 
ceremony  has  lifted  her  to  the  high  estate  of  wife. 
By  her  side  was  a  figure  in  black,  wearing  a  large 
chimney-pot  hat  draped  with  crape  .  .  . 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gubbins  halted  to  look  at  Bam 
field.  He  had  now  fairly  drained  the  carpet-sweep 
er,  and  his  usual  air  of  careless  confidence  was  re 
stored. 

He  addressed  the  happy  pair.  "Done  it?"  he 
enquired. 

Mr.  Gubbins  grinned.  "Yus,"  he  answered. 

With  great  decision  the  caravan  man  stepped 
forward,  and  embracing  the  startled  Dorothy, 


The  Caravan  Man  177 

imprinted  a  resounding  kiss,  a  proper  country  kiss, 
on  her  rosy  cheek.  The  indignant  husband  made 
a  move  —  into  his  arms  Bamfield  pressed  the  wet 
carpet-sweeper.  Mr.  Gubbins  grasped  it  —  Barn- 
field  again  kissed  Dorothy.  Then,  releasing  her, 
"Bless  you,  my  children,"  he  said,  and  turned  to 
assist  the  almost  helpless  Bertha  to  mount. 


CHAPTER  X 

LUNCH  at  the  Priory  was  over.  It  had  been 
an  affair  of  suppressed  thunder.  Why  sup 
pressed  neither  Aunt  Anne  nor  Granny  could  have 
said.  Both  had  intended  to  discharge  their  light 
nings  fully  and  completely  at  the  culprit,  as  was 
their  wont,  but  —  but  —  somehow  a  new  and 
strange  feeling  had  come  over  them  both,  corre 
sponding,  had  they  known  it,  to  a  new  and  strange 
feeling  that  now  possessed  Rose.  Rose  was  half 
frightened  at  herself.  Somewhere  within  her 
depths  a  terrible  thing  had  raised  its  sinister  head, 
a  thing  the  very  existence  of  which  she  had  never 
suspected. 

"You're  not  a  child,"  it  whispered.   "You're  a 


woman." 


It  was  terrible,  unnerving.  It  could  n't  be  true. 
Aunt  Anne  and  Granny  were  women,  and  see  how 
much  older  they  were. 

"Nonsense!"  said  the  voice.  "You're  a  woman. 
Tell  them  so." 

No,  that  she  dared  not  do,  but  she  almost  trem 
bled  as  she  stood  at  her  glass  before  she  ran  down 
to  the  dining-room  and  tried  to  decide  if  there  was 
truth  or  falsehood  in  this  insidious  counsel.  She 
came  to  no  decision,  but  the  very  fact  that  she 


The  Caravan  Man  179 

had  come  to  that  questioning  made  a  subtle  change 
in  her  that  was  sensed  by  the  two  others.  She 
spoke  scarcely  a  word,  and  yet  there  was  something 
different  about  her.  Aunt  Anne  looked  fixedly  at 
her,  undecided  as  to  speaking.  Rose,  looking  up, 
caught  her  aunt's  eye  —  and  looked  steadily  at 
her  in  return  till  Aunt  Anne  looked  away  and  at 
Granny.  Granny  looked  at  Aunt  Anne,  and  the 
meal  went  on  in  silence. 

After  lunch  Rose  went  into  the  garden  and 
wandered  there,  thinking.  What  had  she  done 
wrong?  Why  had  she  been  brought  home  like  a 
child?  Why  must  she  not  speak  to  the  caravan 
man?  Not  that  it  mattered,  but  to  be  ordered, 
directed,  not  to  do  so  mattered  very  much  indeed. 

This  Jones  —  Mr.  Jones,  the  photographer  — 
was  quite  a  well-behaved  man.  Any  one  could  see 
that.  Never  offensive,  quite  humorous  at  times, 
and  intelligent  and  —  well,  really,  superior.  You 
felt  surprised  when  you  talked  to  him  at  finding  he 
took  people's  photographs.  And  while  he  talked 
about —  What  did  he  talk  about?  Nothing  in 
particular,  but  you  somehow  discovered  that  he 
had  queer  views  on  —  on  —  what?  Everything, 
she  supposed. 

He  was  different  from  other  men  —  his  dress, 
his  mode  of  life.  Of  course,  the  very  caravan 
marked  him  out  as  different.  He  wandered  about 
in  it,  refusing  to  be  tied  to  one  spot  like  people  who 


1 80  The  Caravan  Man 

lived  in  houses.  He  had  to  go  shopping.  She  had 
met  him  once  or  twice  with  pockets  bulging  with 
little  odd  packages,  on  his  way  up  from  Ouseton. 
And  he  did  things  for  himself,  and  lit  fires  on  the 
common  at  night,  going  to  bed,  so  she  heard,  tre 
mendously  late  and  sometimes  apparently  get 
ting  up  almost  immediately  afterward.  She  smiled. 
She  liked  the  thought  of  Mr.  Jones.  And  just  then 
Mr.  Jones's  head  popped  up  over  the  hedge  that 
parted  the  garden  from  the  common.  His  eyes 
twinkled. 

"Miss  Rose,"  he  said. 

Rose's  heart  gave  a  great  jump  —  of  surprise  at 
first,  and  then,  she  knew,  of  pleasure. 

"You  must  n't,"  she  said. 

"It's  all  right.  I  shan't  be  a  minute.  I  must 
speak  to  you.  It's  tremendously  important.  Do 
come  here." 

She  glanced  at  the  house,  saw  Granny  and  Aunt 
Anne,  through  the  French  windows  that  gave  onto 
the  lawn,  sitting  inside  the  drawing-room,  and  then 
walked  to  the  hedge.  She  could  not  be  seen  from 
the  house  there. 

Bamfield  was  standing  on  the  top  of  the  low 
bank  on  which  the  holly  hedge  was  planted. 

"I  say,"  he  began,  "you  won't  mind,  but  —  you 
know  when  your  grandmother  took  —  when  your 
grandmother  and  you  went  away  this  morning?" 

"Yes?" 


The  Caravan  Man  1 8 1 

"Well  —  you  won't  mind  ?  —  she  took  my  lens." 

A  furious  flood  of  crimson  dyed  Rose's  cheeks. 

"Your  lens?"  she  repeated. 

"Yes,"  said  Bamfield  apologetically.  "You 
know  —  off  my  camera." 

"Are  you  sure?"  asked  Rose.  Her  heart  sank. 
She  knew  it  was  so. 

"Yes,"  answered  Bamfield.  "Don't  look  like 
that,"  he  went  on.  "You  make  me  feel  such  a  cad 
to  say  anything  about  it,  but,  you  see,  I  can't  take 
photographs  without  it,  and  then  it  gives  me  an 
idea,  too." 

Poor  Rose  divulged  the  secret  of  the  Priory. 
Not  that  it  was  a  secret,  but  it  had  been  secret  from 
Bamfield  till  now. 

"I'm  so  sorry,"  she  stammered.  "You  know  — 
of  course  she  does  n't  mean  any  harm  —  but  — 
but  —  she  is  like  that  —  at  times  —  over  some 
things." 

Bamfield  tried  to  put  her  at  her  ease.  "  I  know," 
he  struck  in.  "Lots  of  old  ladies  do  queer  little 
things.  So  do  old  gentlemen.  Look  at  me,  and  all 
the  queer  little  ways  I've  got.  It's  only  old  age 
creeping  on." 

."You're  not  old,"  said  Rose. 

"I  am.  I  shall  never  see  thirty  again."  He 
sighed.  "Well,  now,  about  my  lens  —  I  ought 
to  have  it — "  I 

"Of  course,"  she  answered.  "  I  '11  get  it  for  you." 


1 8  2  The  Caravan  Man 

"No,  no!"  he  cried  in  alarm.  "Don't  do  that! 
Good  gracious!  you'll  spoil  it  all!  Leave  the  lens 
where  it  is." 

"Then  what  will  you  do?" 

"  I  'm  going  to  call  and  ask  for  it." 

Rose  saw  it  in  a  flash.  Of  course  that  was  the 
scheme.  He  was  going  to  call  boldly  at  the  Priory 
and  ask  for  his  lens.  He  had  a  perfect  right  to. 
He  could  not  be  denied  —  he  could  not  very  well 
be  treated  rudely,  even.  Granny's  queer  little  ways 
were  one  of  the  everyday  trifles  of  Ouseton  exist 
ence,  so  well  known  that  no  one  even  thought  of 
commenting  on  them,  but  here  was  a  stranger,  a 
man,  moreover,  who  had  been  snubbed  —  "  abom 
inably  treated "  —  said  Rose  to  herself,  and  he 
was  entitled  to  look  at  the  matter  from  a  very 
different  standpoint.  His  means  of  livelihood  had 
been  appropriated  —  that  phrase  might  well  pro 
ceed  from  the  stern  lips  of  a  prosecuting  counsel 
in  a  magistrate's  court!  He  was  a  deeply  injured 
man,  entitled  to  be  hard  and  unforgiving,  to  waive 
explanations  and  excuses  to  one  side,  to  refuse  to 
be  placated.  Rose  saw  at  once  that  he  would  have 
to  be  appeased.  She  saw  Aunt  Anne  attempting 
it.  She  saw  Granny,  stiff,  stubborn,  and  unre 
pentant,  standing  on  her  dignity.  She  saw  —  yes, 
she  saw  quite  plainly  that  in  all  probability  she, 
Rose,  would  be  deputed  to  put  matters  straight. 

"When  are  you  coming?"  She  was  all  smiles. 


The  Caravan  Man  183 

"You've  finished  lunch,  have  n't  you?" 

"Yes." 

"Then,  I'm  coming  now." 

"Am  I  to  let  Aunt  Anne  know?" 

"No,  don't  let  any  one  know  anything.  I  'm  just 
going  to  stroll  in  directly,  and  —  well,  you'll  see." 

"Give  me  a  minute,  then.  I  must  be  there.  And, 
oh!"  she  pleaded,  "you  won't  be  unkind,  will  you? 
But  there!  I  know  you  won't."  She  was  quite 
sure. 

"Unkind  —  I  should  think  not!  But  it's  just  a 
lovely  chance,  isn't  it?  All  right.  Good-bye.  I'll 
be  there  in  a  minute  or  two." 

He  dropped  down  from  the  bank,  and  Rose,  with 
beating  heart,  made  her  way  back  to  the  house. 

Always  after  lunch  Granny  and  Aunt  Anne  had 
a  cup  of  tea,  Rose  pouring  out  for  them.  The  little 
table  was  there  on  the  lawn  by  the  drawing-room 
window,  in  the  shade  of  the  tall  rhododendron 
bushes,  and  Aunt  Anne  and  Granny,  with  sewing 
in  their  hands,  were  coming  out  of  the  drawing- 
room.  Rose  sat  down  and  poured  them  each  a 
cup.  She  usually  went  away  directly  afterwards, 
but  to-day  she  poured  a  cup  for  herself  —  a  third 
cup  was  always  set  —  and  drank  at  leisure,  keep 
ing  a  calm  face  —  and  listening  hard. 

There  came  a  step  on  the  gravel  drive.  From 
where  they  sat  they  could  hear,  but  not  see,  the 
approach  to  the  front  door  of  any  caller. 


184  The  Caravan  Man 

"Somebody  calling!"  exclaimed  Aunt  Anne. 
"Whoever  can  it  be?" 

Round  the  rhododendron  bushes  appeared  a 
white-capped  maid,  and  close  behind  her  —  the 
caravan  man.  With  sublime  bad  manners,  he  had 
followed  her  as  she  went  to  enquire  whether  Granny 
would  receive  him,  and  now  here  he  was,  his  big 
camera  under  his  arm,  a  bag  over  his  shoulder 
with  darkslides  in  it,  the  legs  folded  up  into  a  neat 
bundle  in  his  left  hand,  his  hat  raised  in  his  right. 

"Please,  mum,"  began  the  maid,  "a  gentle 
man —  Oh,  here  he  is!" 

Aunt  Anne  stood  up.  So  did  Rose.  Granny  sat 
still.  Rose  glanced  at  her.  Her  eyes  wore  that 
far-away  look  of  pensive  saintliness  that  always 
indicated  her  sense  of  the  approach  of  another  dis 
covery. 

Aunt  Anne  stepped  with  easy  confidence  to  the 
top  of  her  iceberg  and  sent  a  frosty  blast  onto 
Bamfield. 

;   "Not  at  home,"  she  said  to  the  maid,  clearly 
and  loudly. 

Bamfield  bowed.  "Oh,  pardon  me,  I  did  n't 
come  to  make  a  call.  I  hope  you  will  forgive  me  — 
but  I've  called  about  my  lens." 

Like  a  flash  Aunt  Anne  guessed  —  and  grew 
faint.  She  glanced  at  Granny,  and  her  guess  froze 
to  certainty.  Yet  the  instinct  of  parley  moved 
her. 


The  Caravan  Man  185 

"Your  lens?"  she  said,  in  her  most  detached 
manner.  "Lens  —  I  don't  quite  — " 

"It's  quite  all  right."  Bamfield  was  cheerful, 
but  determined.  He  had  got  his  foot  in  at  the 
Priory  and  did  not  mean  to  be  dismissed  easily. 
He  turned  to  Granny.  "I  am  glad  you  felt  inter 
ested,"  he  observed,  in  the  friendliest  way,  "but 
it's  useless  without  the  camera,  so  I  brought  that 
with  me." 

He  looked  around  as  if  seeking  where  to  deposit 
his  impedimenta.  Rose,  with  a  boldness  that  stag 
gered  her,  took  the  camera  legs  from  him  and 
placed  them  on  the  table.  He  put  the  camera 
there,  also,  and  turned  to  Aunt  Anne. 

"I  asked  Mrs.  Grampette  this  morning  if  she 
would  care  to  examine  the  working  of  a  lens," 
he  went  on,  still  in  his  politest  style,  "and  she 
could  not  spare  the  time  then,  evidently.  I  sup 
pose  you  meant  to  find  time  this  afternoon?"  He 
turned  enquiringly  to  Granny.  "But,  as  I  say, 
the  lens  by  itself  is  useless,  so  I  brought  the  camera 
round,  and  —  if  you'll  let  me  have  the  lens 
back—" 

Granny  looked  at  Aunt  Anne  —  Aunt  Anne 
looked  at  Granny.  Neither  spoke.  The  intruder 
held  all  the  cards.  The  very  ease  of  his  manner, 
though  it  spared  the  feelings  of  both  —  even  Aunt 
Anne  felt  almost  a  touch  of  gratitude  —  seemed 
to  leave  him  still  more  certainly  in  possession  of 


1 8  6  The  Caravan  Man 

the  field.  Again  Rose,  hitherto  accustomed  to 
speak  when  she  was  spoken  to,  displayed  a  new 
initiative:  — 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Jones,"  she  said.  "It's  very 
kind  of  you,  and  Granny  will  be  delighted.  I'll 
get  the  lens.  Granny,  it's  in  your  bag,  is  n't  it?  — 
in  your  room?" 

"Yes,"  said  Granny. 

The  old  lady  was  really  feeling  very  bad.  These 
discoveries  took  place  from  time  to  time,  but  al 
ways  among  people  who  knew  her  —  the  servants, 
Rose  or  Anne,  the  tradespeople  at  Ouseton.  But 
to  be  exposed  like  this  by  this  stranger  —  it  was 
terrible!  Still,  she  admitted,  the  man  was  behav 
ing  in  quite  a  gentlemanly  way. 

Rose  went  into  the  house.  Aunt  Anne  made  a 
movement  to  follow  her,  but  stopped.  An  awk 
ward  silence  of  a  few  seconds  followed.  Then  Barn- 
field  said:  — 

"What  a  perfect  day!" 

"Delightful,"  said  Aunt  Anne. 

If  he  had  said,  "What  filthy  weather!"  and  she 
had  replied,  "Horrid!"  the  expression  on  her  face 
would  have  been  much  the  same. 

"Won't  you  sit  down?"  said  Granny,  and  Bam- 
field  sat  down  in  Rose's  chair. 

He  felt  a  little  thrill  at  the  thought,  and  a  great 
sense  of  accomplishment.  An  hour  ago  he  had 
been  an  accursed  outsider,  and  now  here  he  was, 


The  Caravan  Man  187 

the  serpent,  boldly  ensconced  in  Eden,  not  wrig 
gling  in,  but  —  but  —  stalking  in,  as  one  might 
be  forgiven  for  putting  it,  under  the  upturned 
noses  and  flaming  swords  of  the  very  angels  at 
the  gate. 

Rose  appeared,  carrying  in  her  hand  Granny's 
bag,  an  affair  of  cloth  drawn  together  at  the  mouth 
with  a  string.  She  handed  it  to  Granny. 

"I  have  n't  opened  it,"  she  said. 

Granny  took  the  bag  without  a  word,  slipped 
her  hand  in,  and  drew  out  the  lens,  a  thing  of  brass 
and  glass,  not  much  bigger  than  a  walnut. 

"Is  this  it?"  she  asked. 

Bamfield  took  it  with  easy  unconcern.  "Yes, 
that's  it — a  Zeiss,"  he  remarked.  "A  capital 
make  of  lens.  I'll  put  it  on  the  camera,  and  then 
you  can  have  a  good  look." 

Rose  spoke.  She  was  staggered  at  her  own  au 
dacity,  but  the  look  of  affairs  as  she  had  rejoined 
the  group  had  nerved  her.  Bamfield  was  so  at 
home.  He  was  leaning  back  composedly  in  the 
garden  chair,  his  hat  on  the  grass,  his  camera  by 
his  side,  the  bag  with  the  darkslides  at  his  feet, 
the  camera  legs  on  the  table;  and  he  was  looking 
at  Aunt  Anne  and  Granny  with  so  companionable 
an  air  that  Rose  almost  laughed  outright.  She 
suppressed  that,  but  her  second  impulse  she 
adopted. 

"Have  a  cup  of  tea,  first,"  she  said. 


1 8  8  The  Caravan  Man 

Aunt  Anne  jumped.  Granny  turned  to  stare. 
Rose  never  flinched. 

Bamfield  jumped  up.  "Thanks.  If  you  will  — " 

"Sit  down,"  said  Rose.  "Fm  not  going  to  sit. 
And  I  want  a  fresh  cup.  You've  lunched,  I  sup 
pose  ? " 

How  she  did  it  she  scarcely  knew,  but  the  words 
were  out  —  and  Aunt  Anne  could  stare  as  much  as 
she  liked. 

"Oh,  thanks  very  much,  yes."  Bamfield  sat 
down  again  as  he  was  bidden. 

Rose  went  into  the  drawing-room  and  rang  the 
bell.  The  maid  appeared. 

"Another  cup  and  saucer,"  said  Rose,  and  a 
minute  later  was  standing  at  the  table  pouring  tea 
for  Bamfield.  She  had  a  feeling  that  she  could  not 
carry  the  thing  through  much  longer.  She  felt 
like  one  attempting  to  skate  for  the  first  time  and 
miraculously  succeeding  straight  away  —  that  it 
was  delicious,  but  bound  to  end  in  catastrophe 
very  soon.  But  Bamfield's  immense  ease  was  a 
tremendous  asset.  He  sipped  his  tea  and  talked 
to  Granny. 

He  completely  ignored  all  that  had  passed  be 
tween  them  that  morning.  He  calmly  assumed  the 
attitude  of  a  friend,  dropped  in  casually.  No,  not 
quite  that;  somehow  he  had  contrived  to  invest  his 
visit  with  the  air  of  an  arranged  thing,  a  matter 
of  invitation  and  acceptance.  Not  one  word  of  his 


The  Caravan  Man  189 

touched  on  the  subject,  yet  it  was  plain  that  his 
stay  was  to  be  of  some  hours'  duration.  Objec 
tion  was  impossible.  Granny  had  stolen  his  lens, 
and  if  this  was  the  price  of  forgiveness,  they  might 
well  be  thankful.  Rose,  of  course,  was  misbehav 
ing.  How  dared  she!  Offering  the  man  tea!  But 
there!  Perhaps,  under  the  circumstances,  it  was 
all  for  the  best.  Anyhow,  it  was  plain  that  he  had 
no  intention  of  making  a  fuss,  and  if  a  little  civil 
ity  would  finally  put  matters  right  —  why,  Rose 
perhaps  was  doing  the  right  thing. 

"I  almost  wonder,"  Bamfield  was  saying,  "I 
almost  wonder  you  have  n't  taken  to  photog 
raphy.  It's  immensely  absorbing — and  so  easy." 
Granny  looked  uninterested.  "Not  the  way  I  do 
it,  of  course,  the  professional  way  —  though  that's 
interesting,  too.  Let  me  show  you."  He  got  up, 
screwed  the  lens  into  its  holder  on  the  front  of  his 
camera,  racked  out  the  bellows,  brought  it  round 
to  Granny's  side,  and  put  it  on  the  table  near  her. 
"If  you'll  look — "  He  whipped  his  black  cloth 
out  of  the  pocket  of  his  jacket,  slipped  it  over  his 
head,  and  focused  part  of  the  garden.  "There! 
Look,"  he  said;  "it's  quite  interesting." 

Granny  had  to  look.  She  did  not  want  to,  but 
this  photographer  man  was  a  person  still  to  be 
conciliated.  She  dipped  her  old  head  under  the 
black  cloth.  After  a  second  or  two,  "It's  upside 
down,"  she  objected. 


190  The  Caravan  Man 

"Yes,  it  is,  and  that  can't  be  helped,  but — " 

"But  are  your  photographs  all  taken  upside 
down?" 

She  came  hastily  out  from  under  the  cloth.  A 
thought  had  flashed  through  her.  Rose  had  been 
photographed —  Had  she  been  taken  upside 
down? 

Bamfield  reassured  her,  explaining  the  differ 
ence  between  a  negative  and  a  print.  Granny  did 
not  quite  grasp  it,  but  as  Bamfield  talked,  he 
twisted  the  camera  about,  focusing  on  different 
parts  of  the  lawn,  and  Granny  began  to  feel  in 
terested  at  the  moving  pictures  in  the  ground- 
glass  screen. 

"It's  pretty,"  she  declared,  "and  so  like." 

"Yes,"  said  Bamfield,  "wonderfully  like,  is  n't 
it?  Now  let's  look  at  somebody." 

He  pointed  the  camera  at  Aunt  Anne,  who  sat 
grimly  enduring,  but  secretly  resentful. 

"Ha,  ha!"  said  Granny.  "There  she  is!  You're 
here,  Anne,  upside  down." 

Anne  smoothed  her  frock  down. 

Then  Rose  must  be  looked  at.  She  stood  still, 
confident,  while  Bamfield  got  her  into  focus. 

"Oh,  is  n't  that  pretty?"  exclaimed  Granny. 

"Rather!"  said  Bamfield  heartily. 

Rose  moved  away. 

"I'd  like  to  have  a  picture  like  that,"  said 
Granny. 


The  Caravan  Man  191 

"Well,  shall  I  take  one?"  said  Bamfield. 

"Could  you?"  asked  Granny,  surprised. 

"Of  course.  If  you  would  n't  mind  standing 
there  again,  Miss  Rose." 

Rose  stood,  and  Granny  watched  with  interest 
while  Bamfield  took  her  photograph.  Then  Rose 
protested  that  Granny  must  have  hers  taken. 
Granny  accepted  the  suggestion,  but  Rose  in 
sisted  on  taking  her  up  to  her  room  first  to  make 
her  fine.  Insensibly  there  was  stealing  over  the 
little  party  a  friendliness,  a  sense  of  comradeship, 
that  Bamfield  had  the  knack  of  creating.  Only 
Aunt  Anne  withstood  it.  Grimly  enduring  this 
man's  objectionable  presence,  she  declined  to  be 
thawed.  Protest  she  could  scarcely  voice  —  dis 
cretion  forbade;  but  she  had  to  shut  her  lips  tightly 
to  check  the  speech  she  would  have  given  much 
to  make.  Rose  should  hear  something  by  and  by 
as  to  her  conduct.  And  as  for  Granny  —  well ! 

Bamfield,  who  had  done  his  best  with  her, 
rested  contented  in  his  partial  defeat.  He  had  made 
headway  with  the  old  lady  at  least  —  and  here 
he  was,  in  the  garden,  strolling  round  the  lawn, 
hands  in  pockets,  smoking. 

"Why  don't  you  smoke,  Mr.  Jones?"  Rose  had 
called  out  as  she  had  led  her  grandmother  away, 
and  he  had  lit  a  cigarette. 

Granny  was  photographed.  Aunt  Anne  de 
clined. 


192  The  Caravan  Man 

"What  about  the  barn?"  said  Rose,  in  the  most 
casual  manner.  "  If  you  'd  like  to  make  some  pic 
tures  there — " 

"I  should,"  replied  Bamfield  earnestly. 

"Will  you  come,  Granny?" 

"Where?" 

"Round  to  the  barn.  Mr.  Jones  wants  to  make 
some  pictures  there." 

"I  don't  think  I  will.  I  don't  want  to  stand 
about.  Does  Mr.  Jones  know  where  it  is?" 

Rose  looked  at  Bamfield. 

"Round  that  side,  isn't  it?"  queried  the  artful 
man,  pointing  in  the  wrong  direction. 

Rose  blushed.  The  swiftness  of  conception  of 
the  flagrant  piece  of  humbug  appalled  her. 

"No.  I'd  better  show  you."  She  was  swept 
into  his  web  of  deceit  on  that  instant,  she  felt,  and 
though  outwardly  unmoved  as  she  led  the  way, 
she  quivered  inwardly  at  her  sense  of  guilt. 

So  they  went  to  the  barn,  and  Bamfield  disen 
gaged  himself  of  the  burden  of  his  photographic 
apparatus  and  had  a  good  laugh.  Rose  laughed, 
too,  and  the  avowed  enjoyment  sealed,  she  felt, 
their  mutual  implication  in  whatever  crime  might 
be  imputed  to  them. 

"How  did  I  get  on  with  your  grandmother?" 
asked  Bamfield. 

"Nicely,"  said  Rose.  "Mind,  she's  frightened 
of  you,  but  I  'm  sure  she  likes  you  more." 


The  Caravan  Man  193 

"Every  one,"  said  Bamfield,  "every  one  likes 
me  more  the  longer  they  know  me." 

"What  about  my  aunt?"  said  Rose. 

"Oh,  well,  she's  different,"  answered  Bam 
field. 

They  spent  an  hour  in  and  out  of  the  barn.  Un 
doubtedly  there  was  some  of  the  stonework  that 
plainly  had  never  been  part  of  a  barn's  construction 
originally.  Bamfield  pointed  it  out  to  Rose,  and 
told  her  things  about  architecture  and  Roman 
arches,  and  Gothic,  and  how  bricklayers  of  differ 
ent  periods  worked  in  different  ways.  He  was  full 
of  interesting  bits  of  knowledge.  And  when  he 
took  his  pictures,  she  could  see  him  considering 
matters  carefully,  trying  views,  walking  about, 
shifting  his  camera  backwards  and  forwards. 
What,  exactly,  he  would  get  by  way  of  results, 
Rose  could  not  surmise,  but  she  felt  certain  that 
taste  as  well  as  judgment  was  at  work. 

He  insisted  once  or  twice  on  getting  her  into  the 
picture,  and  made  one  or  two  exposures  inside 
the  barn.  He  called  her  to  look  into  the  screen 
at  times,  and  explained  just  why  he  took  in  this 
particular  bit  and  left  out  that.  She  learned  to 
put  in  the  darkslide  and  pull  out  the  shutter,  to 
cap  and  uncap  the  lens.  She  spoiled  one  or  two 
plates  for  him  in  doing  so,  and  even  that  some 
how  made  for  friendliness. 

Then  he  took  one  or  two  photographs  of  the 


1 94  The  Caravan  Man 

house  —  a  fine  old  Queen  Anne  building  —  and 
with  that  all  his  plates  were  used  up. 

"Now,"  said  he  challengingly  to  Rose,  "what 
about  tea?" 

She  flushed.  The  exalted  mood  that  had  seized 
her  at  the  moment  of  his  visit  had  simmered  down, 
and  —  she  had  to  own  it  —  she  was  timid  again. 
Bamfield  saw  it. 

"Look  here,"  he  said.    "I  was  only  joking,  of 


course." 


"Not  at  all,"  she  said.  "Of  course  I  shall  ask 
you  to  stop  to  tea." 

"Wait  a  bit,"  said  Bamfield.  "Would  n't  it  be 
nicer  if  Mrs.  Grampette  asked  me?" 

"  But  —  but  — "  began  Rose. 

He  struck  in:  "I  know  you  think  she  won't. 
Shall  I  make  her?" 

"Can  you?" 

"I  think  so.  I'm  going  to  try.  Leave  it  to  me.*' 

His  confidence  was  superb.  He  did  not  even 
make  a  pretence  of  making  ready  to  go.  He  merely 
stowed  away  the  camera  in  the  barn  and  strolled 
with  Rose  round  to  the  lawn  again.  What  would 
he  say  ?  thought  Rose  as  they  went.  Granny  was  a 
terrible  old  lady  to  manage.  The  affair  of  the  lens 
might  now  fairly  be  considered  dealt  with  and  dis 
posed  of,  and  Aunt  Anne's  influence  had  doubt 
less  been  at  work  to  his  prejudice  during  the  last 
hour.  But  as  they  rounded  the  corner  of  the  house 


The  Caravan  Man  195 

she  saw  that  a  most  wonderful  thing  had  hap 
pened. 

There,  in  the  shadiest  and  prettiest  part  of  the 
lawn,  was  set  a  table,  elegantly  white-clothed, 
with  the  best  tea  service  —  the  very  special  tea 
pot  and  milk-jug  and  sugar-basin  reserved  for  the 
highest  occasions  —  and  four  chairs  — four  chairs, 
mark  you !  —  and  in  one  chair  sat  Aunt  Anne, 
freshly  gowned  since  lunch-time,  and  across  the 
lawn  to  meet  them  came  Granny,  newly  frocked 
also,  and  smiling  so  affably,  and  with  both  hands 
held  out,  positively  eagerly,  and  the  heartiest 
welcome  for  Mr.  Jones,  expressed  unreservedly  in 
word,  manner,  tone  — 

"Well,  so  you've  finished  your  photographing? 
And  now  you're  going  to  stay  and  have  tea, 
are  n't  you,  Mr.  Jones?" 

Granny  was  up  to  him  by  now,  both  hands  on 
his  arm,  smiling  charmingly  up  at  him,  every  pos 
sible  affability  conveyed  to  him  in  gesture  and 
look. 

Rose  and  Bamfield  both  pulled  up  short.  Rose 
was  bewildered.  Even  Bamfield  was  nonplussed. 
No  doubt  he  had  had  something  ready  to  say,  some 
phrase  designed  to  lead  up  to  an  indication  of  the 
desirability  of  inviting  him  to  tea.  But  to  be  met 
in  this  fashion,  with  a  point-blank  invitation, 
backed  up  with  the  evidence  of  deliberate  prepara 
tion  for  his  acceptance,  was  altogether  unexpected, 


196  The  Caravan  Man 

and  positively  a  faint  blush  of  embarrassment 
tinged  his  cheek  as  he  accepted,  hastily,  even  stam- 
meringly :  — 

"Tea?  Well  —  really,  if  you're  sure —  De 
lighted,  I'm  sure." 

Aunt  Anne  had  risen  by  this  time,  and,  wreathed 
in  smiles  also,  had  come  across  and  joined  them. 
She  linked  her  arm  through  one  of  Rose's;  Granny 
linked  through  the  other.  Granny  and  Aunt  Anne 
vied  with  each  other  in  smiles — smiles  at  the  man 
Jones  —  at  the  caravan  man ! 

He  stared  at  Rose  —  Rose  stared  at  him.  He 
was  puzzled,  puzzled,  and  his  active  brain,  thrust 
ing  every  way  through  his  bewilderment  for  some 
explanation  of  this  marvellous  transformation, 
found  nothing  and  yet  persisted  in  its  search. 

The  maid  led  him  to  the  bathroom  upstairs  to 
wash  his  hands.  He  heard  Rose's  voice  outside, 
"Give  Mr.  Jones  these,"  and  after  a  tap  at  the 
door  a  brush  and  comb  were  handed  him.  He 
brushed  his  hair  thoughtfully.  Still  he  quested 
for  explanation.  Granny  did  not  puzzle  him  so 
much,  but  Aunt  Anne! 

Now,  as  he  brushed  his  hair,  his  thoughts  ran 
thus,  and  led  him  to  what,  the  instant  it  dawned 
on  him,  he  felt  beyond  all  possibility  of  error  was 
the  correct  solution. 

"Lie  down!"  as  he  plied  the  brush  diligently  on 
his  stubborn  hair.  "Too  long  —  wants  cutting. 


The  Caravan  Man  197 

Lot  of  hair  I  Ve  got.  A  nuisance,  sometimes.  Bet 
ter,  though,  than  bald,  like  some  people  —  like 
Monk,  for  instance.  Good  old  Monk,  sagacious  old 
Monk!  Glad  to  have  seen  him  this  morning,  with 
his  expostulations  and  his  warnings  —  Warnings 
of  what?  'They'll  be  taking  you  for  him.'  For 
whom?  'For  Lord  Bamfylde,  the  immensely 
wealthy  peer  who  goes  about  in  a  caravan,  photo- 
ing—'  By  Jove!" 

Bamfield  nearly  dropped  the  brush.  That  was 
it!  That  explained  Granny  and  Aunt  Anne  and  — 
Rose?  No,  never!  She  was  genuine  all  through. 
But  these  other  two —  Oh,  it  was  too  palpable! 
He  chuckled  to  himself.  What  a  lark!  Silly  old 
fossils !  A  lord ! 

Well,  let  them  think  so.  Why  not?  Nothing  to 
do  with  him  if  they  made  the  mistake.  No  more 
ordering  off  the  common,  he  fancied;  no  more 
difficulties  in  admitting  him  to  the  Priory;  no  more 
forbidding  Rose  to  speak  to  him.  It  was  excru 
ciatingly  funny.  Of  course  it  would  n't  last  long. 
For  one  thing,  of  course,  Rose  would  be  told,  and 
it  was  bound  to  make  a  change  in  her,  too.  What 
sort  of  a  change  ?  He  thought  without  effect,  and 
then  dismissed  the  subject.  Whatever  it  was,  it 
would  be  nothing  mean,  of  that  he  was  sure.  But 
these  others  — 

He  was  so  delighted  that  he  rumpled  his  hair 
up  and  did  it  all  over  again. 


198  The  Caravan  Man 

Bamfield's  surmise  was  perfectly  right.  Rose 
and  he  had  scarcely  reached  the  barn  that  after 
noon  when  Aunt  Anne  began  on  Granny. 

"Mother,"  she  said,  "it's  disgraceful.  After 
all  your  promises,  too!" 

Mrs.  Grampette  looked  obstinate.  "Well,  I 
don't  care." 

"  But  look  what  it  means  —  this  wretched  man 
practically  compelling  us  to  receive  him  here, 
photoing  about  our  place  —  and  Rose  with  him  — 
she  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  herself  —  and  asking 
him  to  take  tea!  And  you,  too,  Mother,  allowing 
yourself  to  be  photographed!  Did  you  take  any 
thing  else?" 

"Of  course  not." 

"Let  me  see." 

She  stretched  out  her  hand  to  reach  Granny's 
bag.  The  old  lady  promptly  took  possession  of  it 
herself. 

"Really,  Anne,  after  I've  told  you!" 

Anne  was  determined.  "You  were  in  the  vil 
lage  this  morning.  I  must  look." 

"Really,  Anne! — to  your  mother — and  after 
I've  given  you  my  word  — " 

Anne  reached  across  and  took  the  bag  from  the 
old  lady's  clutch.  She  put  her  hand  in  and  with 
drew  various  articles,  and,  laying  them  on  her  lap, 
spoke  bitterly  to  her  mother. 

"Three   reels   of  silk  —  Wiggin's,   I   suppose? 


The  Caravan  Man  199 

Some  almond  rock  —  really,  Mother!  *  Seven  for 
a  shilling'  —  "  This  last  was  a  ticket  so  inscribed. 

"I'm  sorry,  Anne,"  explained  Mrs.  Grampette. 
"I  tried  for  some  of  the  eggs,  but  the  first  one  I 
got  I  dropped,  so  I  took  the  ticket.  We  must 
send  it  back." 

"And  this  boot-brush  —  the  Stores?" 

"No.  Jobson's." 

"I'll  take  them  back.  Oh,  Mother!" 

"Don't  bully,  Anne.  Hush!  Here's  some  one — " 

The  maid  appeared  with  some  letters,  one  for 
Mrs.  Grampette.  She  opened  it,  put  on  her  spec 
tacles,  and  read  it,  while  Anne  read  through  her 
own  correspondence.  A  startled  exclamation  from 
Granny  made  Anne  look  up. 

"Good  gracious!" 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"Oh,  Anne!" 

"What,  Mother?" 

"The  caravan  man — " 

"What  about  him?" 

"Anne,  Anne,  we  have  n't  been  rude  to  him?" 

"Rude  to  whom?" 

"To  the  caravan  man  —  the  photographer." 

"Well,  really,  Mother!  Why?" 

"We  haven't  addressed  him  improperly?  You 
know,  Anne,  you  can  be  insulting  at  times." 

"Really,  Mother,  I  think  I  know  by  now  how 
to  address  a  man  of  that  class." 


2OO  The  Caravan  Man 

"Class!  That  class!  Do  you  know  who  he 
is?" 

"A  peripatetic  photographer  of  the  name  of 
Jones." 

"He  is  Lord  Bamfylde." 

"Mother!" 

"Lord  Bamfylde!  Oh,  Anne,  I  do  hope  we 
have  n't  said  or  done  anything  wrong." 

"But  how  do  you  know?  Who  says  so?  Is  it 
that  letter?  Who's  it  from?"  Anne  was  almost 
as  agitated  now  as  Granny. 

"It's  from  your  sister  Emma  —  at  Brighton.  I 
wrote  to  her  on  Saturday  as  usual,  giving  her  all 
the  news  —  it  was  my  turn  —  and  here's  her 
reply.  She  must  have  sat  down  and  answered  at 
once.  See  what  she  says,  here  —  no,  here  — 
Where  is  it?  I  told  her,  of  course,  of  the  caravan 
man  on  the  common,  and —  Oh,  here  it  is.  'The 
caravan  man,  as  you  call  him,  is  n't  what  you 
think.  You  say  he  takes  photographs?  Then  it's 
Lord  Bamfylde.  Immensely  wealthy,  but  eccen 
tric.  One  of  the  oldest  families  in  England.  Came 
over  with  the  Conqueror'  — " 

"Norman  architecture!"  interjected  Aunt  Anne. 
"He  said  he  was  an  authority  on  Norman  archi 
tecture." 

"'I  enclose  you  a  cutting  from  the  Daily 
Smudge.9  Here  it  is,  Anne."  Granny  held  it  out. 
"'I  always  keep  my  paper,  and  I  knew  that 


The  Caravan  Man  201 

somewhere  in  the  last  six  months  I'd  seen  some 
thing  about  this  man.'  What  do  you  think  of  it, 
Anne?" 

Anne  took  the  print.  It  was  smudgy.  "It  is  n't 
very  plain,"  she  said. 

"Oh,  yes,  it  is,"  said  Granny  testily.  "Here's 
his  lordship's  face  —  a  nice-looking  young  feller." 

Anne  looked  dubious.  "Oh,  no,  Mother,  that 
is  n't  his  face." 

"No?" 

"No,  that's  his  horse,  turned  the  other  way 
round.  I  think  this  is  his  face,  down  here." 

"I  thought  that  was  his  photographic  appara 
tus.  Anyhow,  read  what  it  says." 

Anne  read  it  out.  Above  the  picture  was  printed : 
"Takes  Photographs,"  and  underneath,  "Lord 
Bamfylde,  celebrated  as  a  hunter,  not  with  a  gun, 
but  with  a  camera.  Eccentric  but  distinguished 
Peer.  Roams  about  England  in  Caravan,  living 
Bohemian  Life." 

Anne  looked  at  Granny  —  Granny  returned  the 
look.  Then,  moved  by  one  impulse,  both  rose  and 
went  to  the  kitchen  to  give  orders. 

Learn  now  why  Rose,  a  girl  of  twenty,  was 
treated  with  an  anxious  restriction  that  in  the 
seven  years  she  had  lived  at  the  Priory,  orphaned 
of  father  and  mother,  might  well  have  warped  an 
ordinary  nature  into  sullenness. 


2  o  2  The  Caravan  Man 

Lucy  Grampette,  her  mother,  a  wayward,  im 
pulsive  thing,  had  run  away  from  the  Priory  in 
her  twenty-first  year,  and  sought  what  she  imag 
ined  would  be  a  life  of  unending  interest  and  thrill 
as  a  dancer. 

Spirited,  determined  never  to  confess  defeat, 
and,  alas!  almost  totally  ignorant  of  the  difficul 
ties  of  the  career  she  had  chosen,  she  had  to  ex 
perience  much  of  its  bitterness.  She  had  a  natural 
faculty,  perhaps  a  genius,  for  dancing.  She  learnt 
that  genius  goes  for  nothing  without  long  training, 
and  that  twenty-one  is  a  hopeless  age  to  com 
mence  to  learn.  She  was  spared  full  knowledge  of 
what  stage-life  has  in  keeping  for  its  failures,  when 
she  fell  in  love  with  and  married  Clarence  Nieu- 
gente,  a  young  artist,  like  herself  endowed  with 
talents,  and  like  herself,  untrained.  They  were 
poor.  They  lived  in  Nieugente's  studio  at  Prim 
rose  Hill,  and  there  she  died,  at  Rose's  birth,  a 
year  after  their  marriage. 

To  her  mother  and  sister  at  the  Priory  her  life 
away  from  home  had  been  a  tragedy.  They  were 
wrong.  Her  stage  adventure  was  a  disagreeable 
but  illuminating  experience,  her  marriage  year  was 
a  time  of  unbounded  happiness.  Loving  passion 
ately,  passionately  loved,  looking  forward  with  a 
joy  unspeakable  to  the  birth  of  her  child,  her  swift 
and  painless  death  ended  a  period  so  exalted  in 
spiritual  ecstasy  that  it  is  scarcely  possible  to 


The  Caravan  Man  203 

contemplate  the  possibility  of  its  long  continu 
ance. 

Rbse,  born  and  brought  up  in  the  studio,  had 
much  of  her  mother  in  her.  Her  father's  death  at 
twelve  left  her  under  the  control  of  her  grand 
mother  and  her  aunt.  They  were  women  not  lack 
ing  in  ordinary  affection.  They  were  fond  of  the 
girl,  but  they  were  animated  by  a  fear  lest  she 
should  develop  those  qualities  which  had,  in  their 
eyes,  ruined  her  mother.  They  feared  her  bubbling 
spirits,  winced  when  she  burst  into  formless  song, 
deprecated  even  too  warm  an  expression  of  affec 
tion.  They  must  train  her  —  it  was  their  duty. 
They  did  their  duty.  Thank  God,  the  girl  found 
a  kingdom  within  herself  where  she  could  sing, 
dance,  dream,  fling  love  around.  That  saved  her. 

Undistinguished  in  habit  of  thought,  the  two 
women  took  the  obvious  view  of  Rose's  acquaint 
ance  with  the  newly  discovered  peer. 

"Just  fancy,  Anne,"  said  Granny.  "And  only 
this  morning  you  were  scolding  Rose  — " 

"So  were  you,"  retorted  Anne. 

"Oh,  dear  me,  no;  I  merely  advised  her." 

"Shall  we  tell  her?" 

Granny  thought  it  out.  "I  think  not.  To  such 
a  man  as  his  lordship  Rose's  very  innocence  must 
have  a  wonderful  charm.  No,  Anne,  let  it  go  on, 
just  —  just — "  She  swayed  her  hands  levelly 
about,  to  and  fro. 


2  O4  The  Caravan  Man 

"And  I  suppose  we  must  n't  let  him  know  we 
know?" 

"Decidedly  not.  His  lordship  chooses  to  live 
this  —  this  vagabondish  life,  in  his  delightful 
caravanserai.  Well,  let  him  disclose  himself  in  His 
Own  Good  Time."  She  actually  glanced  up  at  the 
sky. 

She  was  talking  of  a  lord,  mind  you,  not  The 
Lord,  as  you  might  suppose.  But  there  are  a  great 
many  quite  decent  people  who  feel  a  little  unde 
cided  as  to  which  is  the  more  important  personage 
when  they  meet  a  peer  of  the  realm  in  the  flesh  .  .  . 
Others  have  no  doubt  whatever  .  .  . 

Bamfield,  spick  and  span,  came  down  to  the 
lawn.  Rose  and  Granny  were  sitting  by  the  table. 
Aunt  Anne  met  him  in  the  drawing-room  as  he 
passed  through.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  she  had  been 
lying  in  wait  for  him.  She  simply  could  not  rest 
till  this  extraordinary  matter  had  been  probed 
deeper.  She  wanted  to  put  the  question  plainly  and 
starkly,  to  him,  but  dared  not.  But  complete 
silence  was  beyond  her. 

"Mr.  Jones,"  she  said.  "Mr.  Jones — " 

Bamfield  looked  attention. 

"Jones,"  repeated  Aunt  Anne  significantly,  and 
looked  hard  at  him. 

"Hush!  "said  Bamfield. 

"I  think  not,"  said  Aunt  Anne.  "In  fact,  I 
rather  fancy  Bam — " 


The  Caravan  Man  205 

"Hush!"  said  Bamfield. 
He  laid  finger  to  lip.  Aunt  Anne  nodded. 
"Not  a  word,"  said  Bamfield,  "to  anybody." 
"No,"  said  Aunt  Anne. 

And  Granny  and  Aunt  Anne  and  Rose  and  Bam 
field  had  the  most  delightful  of  teas  in  company. 


CHAPTER  XI 

faint  chime  of  the  clock  on  Chi  se ton 
X  church  striking  eight  came  across  the  com 
mon  as  Rose,  her  heart  beating  quickly  with  the 
sense  of  her  audacity,  shut  quietly  behind  her  the 
gate  of  the  Priory  garden  opening  onto  the  com 
mon.  Breathless  day  had  given  place  to  breath 
less  night.  There  was  no  moon,  but  to  the  girl's 
imagination,  tingling  with  expectation,  the  night 
seemed  to  hold  a  witchery  that  suffused  every 
thing  with  mysterious  light.  The  sky  had  taken 
on  an  unusual  aspect.  Spite  of  the  dark  she  could 
see  the  colours  of  things.  A  glow  went  with  her 
as  she  walked,  coming  out  of  the 

"...  Night, 

Deep  glooming,  yet  how  fraught  with  light 
From  stars  innumerable  set 
In  the  wide  spaces  of  the  sky's 
Unfathomable  violet." 

It  was  a  bare  minute's  walk  to  the  caravan. 
Among  the  trees  by  the  pond  there  shone  the 
ruddy  light  of  Mr.  Jones's  fire  of  sticks.  She  saw 
the  smoke  curling  up,  and  the  unruffled  surface 
of  the  pond  gleamed  redly  as  she  drew  near. 

There  was  music,  too.  More  than  once  this  last 
week  from  the  window  of  her  bedroom,  looking 
out  before  she  got  into  bed,  she  had  heard  faint 


The  Caravan  Man  207 

music  coming  from  the  caravan,  and  to-night  the 
caravan  man  was  evidently  whiling  away  the  time 
of  waiting  for  her  by  playing  whatever  instrument 
it  was  he  claimed  the  mastery  of. 

She  came  upon  him  quietly,  and  unnoticed.  He 
was  sitting  on  the  platform  of  the  caravan,  leaning 
against  the  open  door.  Evidently  he  had  done 
grace  to  her  promised  visit.  His  hair  was,  for  once, 
neatly  parted,  he  had  on  an  immaculately  white 
pair  of  flannel  trousers,  and  over  his  sweater  a  very 
loose  and  rather  "loud"  checked  coat,  with  big 
pockets.  It  was  so  seldom  that  he  appeared  to  pay 
any  attention  to  his  appearance  that  Rose  felt  a 
little  thrill  of  feminine  gratification  at  the  sight  of 
his  attempt  at  personal  preparation.  He  was 
evoking  his  melody  by  way  of  an  instrument  not 
quite  strange  to  Rose,  and  yet  she  could  not  recall 
its  name.  She  saw  it  was  some  variety  of  organ; 
that  is  to  say  it  had  a  key-board  at  each  end  and  a 
bellows  in  the  middle,  and  it  had  to  be  alternately 
pulled  out  and  squeezed  up.  Mr.  Jones  was  play 
ing  it  with  some  dexterity;  the  air  he  evoked  was 
pretty,  catchy  —  reminiscent,  so  Rose  thought,  of 
one  of  the  older  operas,  and  with  nothing  of  hu 
mour  about  it.  Yet  she  had  to  laugh,  and  as  she 
did  so,  wondering  why,  she  saw  on  the  instant  it 
was  because  the  only  other  time  she  had  seen  such 
an  instrument  played  it  had  been  by  a  wandering 
Italian  boy,  who  had  ventured  into  the  Priory 


208  The  Caravan  Man 

garden,  and  after  the  merest  pretence  of  a  perform 
ance  had  sent  forward  a  monkey  on  a  long  chain 
to  solicit  alms. 

Bamfield  suddenly  caught  sight  of  her  and 
stopped  his  harmonies  with  a  crash  as  he  jumped  up 
and  came  down  the  steps.  Rose  touched  her  fore 
head  with  her  finger. 

"Please,  sir,"  she  asked  him,  "do  you  want  a 
monkey?" 

He  stared  a  moment,  then  answered  her  gravely: 
"So  far  I  have  acted  as  my  own  monkey,  but  I 
might  be  prepared  to  entertain  a  reasonable  propo 
sition.  Tell  me,  little  girl,  why  do  you  ask?  Have 
you  a  monkey  for  sale?" 

"No,  sir,  please,  sir"  —  Rose  had  never  spoken 
to  him  in  this  way  before,  and  she  felt  at  once  that 
here  was  a  new  thing  this  wonderful  night  was 
bringing  out  in  her — "but  I  thought  perhaps  I 
might  suit." 

"You ! —  and  why  do  you  wish  to  be  a  monkey  ? " 

"Because  I  have  so  longed  to  travel,"  she  as 
sured  him. 

He  perpended  a  moment.  "You  understand," 
he  told  her  thoughtfully,  "that  your  dress  would 
consist  largely  of  a  little  jacket,  probably  cut 
down  from  the  one  I'm  wearing  when  IVe  done 
with  it,  and  a  red  fez  with  a  tassel.  Do  you  think 
you  could  wear  such  a  dress  with  the  necessary 
grace?" 


The  Caravan  Man  209 

"Well,"  said  Rose,  "I  should  like  to  get  the 
alterations  done  by  my  own  dressmaker." 

"That,"  said  Bamfield,  "might  be  conceded. 
Your  suggestion  begins  to  appeal  to  me  very 
favourably.  Very  favourably.  There  are  points 
about  it  —  for  instance,  when  the  dogs  bark  at  you 
you  would  have  to  run  to  me  and  jump  inside  my 
coat,  left  open  for  the  purpose,  and  snuggle  there. 
Do  you  think  you  could  do  that?" 

Rose  blushed.  "I  should  want  time  to  think.  I 
have  n't  really  considered  my  own  idea  very  far," 
she  admitted,  "and  I  should  have  to  think  it  over 
too." 

"Take  your  time,  take  your  time,"  said  Bam 
field  heartily.  "  I  think  your  scheme  a  good  one, 
and  we  must  n't  let  little  difficulties  stand  in  the 
way.  Mind  you,  I'm  not  going  to  promise,  off 
hand,  to  add  a  monkey  to  my  establishment.  For 
one  thing,  he,  or  she,  would  have  to  be  properly 
apprenticed.  Then  there  arises  the  question  of  the 
premium." 

"What's  a  premium?" 

"A  premium  is  a  sum  of  money  which  the  ap 
prentice's  guardian  or  parent  pays  down  when  the 
apprentice  is  bound  to  his  master.  Generally,  it's 
paid  back  in  wages  during  the  next  seven  years." 

"I  don't  think,"  said  Rose,  "that  they'd  pay  a 
premium  with  me." 

"It  could  be  discussed,"  said  Bamfield.  "Some- 


2 1  o  The  Caravan  Man 

times,  in  the  case  of  a  special  apprentice,  there 
is  n't  any  premium." 

"Then  I  suppose  there  are  n't  any  wages?" 

"The  head  she  has!"  said  Bamfield  admiringly. 
"  Shrewd,  practical,  yet  imaginative."  He  sur 
veyed  Rose  with  enthusiasm  —  "I '11  accept  a 
monkey,"  he  suddenly  decided.  "I'll  waive  the 
premium,  cancel  the  wages,  and  offer  a  good  home. 
To  a  really  earnest  and  persevering  monkey,  anxious 
to  improve  his,  or  her,  position,  I  would  undertake  to 
give  every  advantage.  In  time  she  would  be  able 
to  take  other  monkeys  as  her  own  apprentices." 

"I  had  no  idea,"  said  Rose,  "that  I'd  opened 
out  such  a  tremendous  field  of  enterprise.  I  think 
the  scheme's  rather  running  away  with  us." 

"I've  developed  it  a  bit,  that's  all.  The  idea 
was  yours.  We  won't  come  to  a  decision  to-night, 
though,  will  we?" 

"No,"  said  Rose;  "we'll  sleep  on  it." 

"Quite  so,"  he  agreed;  "but  if,  say,  to-morrow 
morning,  you  are  of  the  same  mind  as  now,  come 
and  see  me,  bringing  with  you  your  birth  certifi 
cate,  a  medical  report  of  fitness  for  the  arduous 
duties  of  the  post,  and  a  magisterial  license.  I  on 
my  part  will  communicate  with  the  Society  for  the 
Supervision  of  Performing  Animals.  We  could  then 
discuss  terms." 

"Could  n't  you  give  me  an  idea  now  of  what  you 
will  pay  me?" 


The  Caravan  Man  211 

"Um-um,"  he  considered.  "I'm  horribly  poor, 
you  know.  The  wandering  musician  earns  but 
scanty  guerdon.  But  with  a  really  nice  monkey  I 
would  share  what  I  had." 

"Well,"  said  Rose  candidly,  "I  don't  know 
what  that  amounts  to  if  you're  so  horribly  poor. 
But  you  're  going  to  share  with  me  to-night,  are  n't 
you?  Then  don't  mislead  me  by  giving  me  a  tre 
mendous  feast  and  making  me  think  I'm  always 
going  to  have  a  sumptuous  time." 

"I  won't  mislead  you,"  answered  the  caravan 
man.  "Pay  no  attention  to  what  I  set  before  you 
to-night.  Black  bread  and  goat's  milk  is  all  it  runs 
to  as  a  rule.  That's  honest,  is  n't  it?"  he  de 
manded. 

It  was  jolly,  Rose  felt,  talking  like  this.  How 
Aunt  Anne  would  frown  if  she  heard  it!  Her 
thoughts  were  back  at  the  Priory.  "You  did  n't 
come  to  our  house  this  evening,"  she  said. 

"Your  people  didn't  expect  me,  did  they?" 
asked  Bamfield. 

"I  think  Granny  had  half  an  idea  you  might 
look  in." 

"She  said  something  about  it  after  tea,"  said 
Bamfield,  "but  naturally  I  would  n't  let  anything 
interfere  with  our  arrangement.  Do  they  know 
you've  come?" 

"No,"  said  Rose.  "I  did  n't  tell  them  anything. 
I  let  them  think  I  had  gone  to  my  room  after  din- 


212  The  Caravan  Man 

ner.  I  had  to  sit  through  dinner  and  pretend  to 
eat.  I  suppose  it  was  my  guilty  conscience  made 
me  feel  as  if  they  kept  looking  at  me." 

"But  you  are  really  prepared  to  eat  supper, 
are  n't  you?"  asked  Bamfield. 

"Rather!  —  I'm  depending  on  it."  She  was 
standing  by  the  steps  of  the  caravan,  and  "Mr. 
Jones"  was  inside.  She  waited  till  he  came  out 
with  a  Chinese  lantern,  its  candle  lit,  and  hung  it 
to  a  branch  of  the  tree.  It  made  a  centre  to  their 
little  world.  Till  now  there  had  perhaps  been  a 
faint  timidity  alive  in  Rose,  but  in  the  presence  of 
the  red  lantern's  gleam,  this  died  down. 

Bamfield  moved  about,  in  and  out  of  the  caravan 
busy  with  preparations  for  the  meal,  while  Rose 
stood  filled  with  delight.  At  what?  She  hardly 
knew;  only,  about  them  both  there  seemed  to  float 
a  sense  of  intimacy  that  belonged  to  just  the  circle 
the  Chinese  lantern  illuminated.  Within  its  dim 
influence,  she  felt,  were  comradeship,  adventure, 
security,  and  a  happy  seclusion  from  to-morrow  or 
yesterday.  The  time  and  the  place  comprehended 
everything. 

"Sit  down,"  said  Bamfield,  "while  I  bustle 
about.  Are  you  glad  you  came  ? " 

She  thrilled  as  she  replied:  "Rather!  Picnics  are 
jolly,  and  this  sort  of  moonlight  picnic —  What 
are  you  going  to  give  me  to  eat?" 

It  was  n't  that  she  really  cared  very  much  what 


The  Caravan  Man  213 

she  ate,  but  the  meal  was  to  be  part  of  this  tremen 
dous  and  exhilarating  adventure.  Something  about 
it  seemed  to  link  it  up  with  long-past  days,  in  the 
old  studio  at  Primrose  Hill,  when,  perhaps,  in  the 
evening,  some  artist  friend  of  her  father's  would 
drop  in  unexpectedly,  and  there  would  be  pipes 
going  and  chat  —  what  about  she  had  forgotten 
now,  but  she  recalled  the  happiness.  It  had  been 
just  this  sort  of  happiness. 

As  she  questioned  him,  Bamfield  looked  up  at 
her  as  he  knelt  by  the  fire  of  sticks,  fresh  blazing, 
and  crackling  bravely. 

"Ever  read  'Pickwick'?" 

"I  did  once." 

"Remember  Mrs.  Bardell?" 

"I  know! ' Chops  and  tomato  sauce'!" 

"  Chops  and  fried  tomatoes,  in  this  case.  Most 
chastely  simple.  I  have  ambitions  as  a  cook,  you 
know,  but  I  dared  not  risk  failure,  with  you  here. 
But  when  you  Ve  eaten  the  chops  and  tomatoes  I 
shall  give  you,  you  shall  lay  your  hand  on  your 
heart  and  tell  me  if  ever  the  most  burning  poet  in 
his  finest  flights  could  melt  his  way  into  your 
bosom's  inmost  core  as  my  chops  and  my  tomatoes 
will  do." 

She  laughed.  "Mind!"  she  warned  him.  "I'm 
fond  of  poetry." 

"Poetry!"  he  sneered.  "Wait  till  you've  tasted 
my  chops  and  tomatoes!" 


214  The  Caravan  Man 

"Touch  wood!"  cried  Rose. 

He  scorned  her.  "If  I'm  wrong  I'll  eat  the 
frying-pan.  And  another  thing  —  I  'm  going  to 
give  you  some  claret,  and  when  I  say  some  claret, 
I  don't  mean  any  sort  of  claret,  but  just  that  par 
ticular  claret  which  alone  may  presume  to  uncork 
within  hail  of  these  chops  —  as  cooked  by  me." 

"Oh,  dear!"  said  Rose.  "Don't  think  me  rude, 
but  —  but  — "  She  hesitated. 

"Yes?" 

"Well,  claret  —  it's  going  rather  a  long  way, 
is  n't  it?  You  ought  to  let  me  pay  half." 

"Gawd  bless  you  for  them  kind  words,  lidy,"  he 
answered.  "Don't  you  see,  this  is  my  treat?  One 
of  these  days,  if  ever  we  meet  again,  you  shall  treat 


me." 


"If  ever  we  meet  again!"  said  Rose.  Somehow 
there  was  melancholy  at  the  back  of  the  thought. 
"And  if  I've  got  any  money." 

"Have  n't  you?"  asked  Bamfield. 

Rose  felt  how  pleasant  it  was  of  him  to  ask  her 
just  bluntly  like  that.  She  shook  her  head. 

"My  face  is  my  fortune,"  she  replied. 

Bamfield  stared  up  at  her.  She  was  sitting  on  the 
tree-root,  leaning  toward  him  and  the  fire.  She 
wore  a  white  dress,  her  hat  and  gloves  lay  by  her 
side,  her  elbows  were  on  her  knees,  and  the  red 
flame  of  the  fire  set  her  shining  hair  aglow.  Her 
lips  were  parted,  her  eyes  bright;  she  was  drinking 


The  Caravan  Man  215 

in  every  moment  of  this  wonderful  hour.  Bamfield 
looked  her  over  and  drew  a  deep  breath. 

"Your  face  is  your  fortune!"  he  said.  "Ah!" 

He  had  brought  out  the  simple  necessaries  for 
their  feasting  —  plates,  knives,  and  forks  —  and 
while  the  chops  sputtered  their  protest  at  the 
frying-pan's  fiery  ordeal,  he  cut  up  some  tomatoes. 

"I  say,  can't  I  do  something?"  asked  Rose.  She 
thought  she  must  offer  to  help,  but  she  felt  per 
fectly  happy  looking  on.  She  wondered  if  it  were 
quite  right  to  feel  so  happy. 

"Just  sit  still  and  admire  me,"  answered  Bam 
field,  slithering  the  sliced  tomatoes  into  the  frying- 
pan. 

"  I  do  admire  you  -^-  for  the  splendid  way  you 
got  on  with  my  aunt  and  Granny  this  afternoon." 

He  looked  up  at  her  with  a  suppressed  grin. 
"Miraculous,  was  n't  it?" 

"The  way  Granny  melted!"  said  Rose.  "Do 
you  know,  when  she  met  you  coming  across  the 
lawn,  I  really  thought  for  a  moment  she  was  going 
to  kiss  you.  I  think,"  she  went  on  meditatively, 
"I  think  you  must  have  reminded  her  of  some  one 
she  had  known,  perhaps  loved,  years  and  years 
ago,  when  she  was  a  girl." 

Bamfield  laughed.  "I  suppose  girls  did  love  in 
crinoline  days?"  he  said.  "Why  haven't  I  got 
pegtop  trousers  and  long  side-whiskers?  I  might 
win  her  love  to  life  again.  Look  here,"  he  said,  eye- 


2  1 6  The  Caravan  Man 

ing  her  closely,  "I  suppose  you  really  dorft  know 
why  it  was  I  got  on  so  well  with  your  people?" 

"No.  Why  was  it?" 

"You're  sure  they  did  n't  mention  anything?" 

She  had  already  told  him,  and  as  she  sat  there 
looking  straight  at  him  with  eyes  of  utter  frank 
ness,  he  felt  a  pang  of  shame  at  the  repetition  of 
his  question.  But  a  jumbled  excuse  seemed  to 
blurt  itself  out  within  him.  "  If  she's  as  true  as  I  'm 
certain  she's  true,  it's  such  a  joy  that  I  must  make 
sure  she's  true,"  was  how  his  thought  ran. 

"No,"  said  Rose.  "Why  was  it?  Was  there  any 
particular  reason?  Is  there  some  secret?  Do  tell 


me." 


"No,  I  won't.  I  was  puzzled  at  first  as  to  why 
your  Aunt  Anne,  in  particular,  turned  so  civil  all 
at  once,  and  then  I  remembered  something  a  friend 
of  mine  told  me  might  happen  —  and  I  saw  it  had. 
It's  quite  amusing." 

Rose  wrinkled  her  brows,  and  looked  hard  at 
him.  "You  worry  me,"  she  said. 

Bamfield  laughed.  "Don't  worry.  It's  nothing. 
You  tell  me  you  don't  know  anything  about  it,  so 
I  'm  sure  you  don't.  We  had  a  jolly  time,  did  n't 
we?" 

"It  was  wonderful  —  such  a  happy  afternoon. 
You  are  wonderful,  you  know." 

"Ami?  How?"  ' 

"I  can't  say  —  just  wonderful.  The  things  you 


The  Caravan  Man  217 

do  and  say."  She  looked  at  him  with  the  frankest 
admiration. 

"You  wonderful,  wonderful  thing!"  thought 
Bamfield  in  return  —  almost  said  it,  in  fact,  but 
checked  himself  in  time. 

"  I  'm  really  a  magician,  you  know,  by  trade,"  he 
answered  gravely,  "but  I  preferred  photography. 
Now,  then,  supper's  nearly  ready.  Plates  hot.  Sit 
nearer.  Are  you  quite  comfortable?" 

"Yes,  thanks,"  she  assured  him.   "This  is  just 


nice." 


"Are  you  warm  enough,"  he  went  on,  "or  shall  I 
get  a  rug?" 

"I'm  lovely,  thanks,"  she  answered.  He  re 
garded  her  consideringly  for  a  second.  "I  know 
you're  lovely,"  he  said,  "but  what  I  asked  was, 
are  you  warm  enough?" 

It  was  venturesome.  For  a  second  Rose  felt  a 
little  uncertain  of  her  own  mood.  "Really,  Mr. 
Jones,"  she  protested,  "you  speak  to  me  as  if  I 
were  a  little  girl." 

Instantly  he  was  apologetic.  " Don't  be  offended. 
But,  you  know,  at  times  you  do  rather  remind  me 
of  a  —  a  certain  little  girl  I  Ve  a  sort  of  acquaint 
ance  with."  He  stopped,  musing  for  a  second,  and 
again  his  eye  with  a  gleam  of  laughter  in  it  rested 
on  her,  and  she  felt  the  sense  of  some  knowledge  in 
him  that  concerned  her.  Her  lips  parted  in  a  query, 
but  he  struck  in,  "  I  '11  tell  you  all  about  her,  one  of 


2  1 8  The  Caravan  Man 

these  days.  Now,"  changing  the  subject,  "let's 
look  at  the  potatoes."  He  dropped  to  his  knees  by 
the  fire  and  commenced  to  rake  among  the  fringes 
of  its  glowing  embers  with  a  stick.  "Don't  you," 
he  asked  her  as  he  raked,  "don't  you  love  potatoes 
baked  in  wood  ashes,  in  their  jackets,  and  roasted 
absolutely  to  perfection?" 

Rose,  who  was  honestly  hungry,  felt  a  little  in 
ward  stir  of  primitive  feeling  glow  warm  within 
her  as  she  answered,  "Yes." 

He  had  raked  out  what  he  sought  from  the  ashes 
of  the  fire  and  was  staring  at  what  he  now  held  in 
his  hands.  He  turned  a  blank  face  to  her. 

"Not  like  some  fellows  would  do  them,  eh?  All 
black,  and  burnt  up  to  cinders." 

"No." 

He  rose  with  a  little  sigh,  walked  a  pace  or  two 
away  towards  the  pond,  and  methodically  tossed 
into  its  shiny  blackness  four  small  objects,  each 
falling  with  a  "plomp"  one  after  the  other  into  the 
water. 

"All  right,"  he  said  solemnly.  "Then  — then 
I'd  better  put  some  more  on."  He  looked  at  her 
tragically. 

She  clapped  her  hands  delightedly.  "  I  told  you 
to  touch  wood,"  she  said.  "Now,  what  about  the 
frying-pan?" 

"What  about  it?" 

"Are  n't  you  going  to  eat  it?" 


The  Caravan  Man  219 

He  clasped  his  hands  imploringly.  "Let  me  off! 
The  fact  is,  I  'm  frightfully  nervous.  I  did  so  want 
to  do  everything  in  first-rate  style  —  and  somehow 
I've  been  feeling  nervous  about  it  ever  since  you 
promised  to  come.  Never  mind;  I'll  soon  have 
some  more  going.  I  '11  scrub  them  up.  And  —  have 
a  glass  of  claret  — "  He  began  to  pour  out  a  glass 
from  the  bottle. 

"Let  me  scrub  them,"  said  Rose. 

"No,  no,"  he  protested.  "I'll  do  it.  But  wish 
me  luck."  He  handed  her  a  glass  filled  with  the 
wine.  "Here's  luck  to  my  next  lot  of  baked 
potatoes." 

Rose  took  a  sip  at  the  wine  and  put  her  glass 
down.  Somehow  the  accident  to  his  cooking  had 
quite  smoothed  away  the  faint  sense  of  strangeness 
that  had  prevented  her  feeling  quite  at  her  ease. 
Here  was  a  domestic  matter  in  which  she  could 
speak  with  authority.  She  was  now  in  that  world 
of  tolerance  of  man's  incapacity  in  which  every 
woman  is  a  queen  in  right  of  her  sex.  She  took 
charge  with  easy  confidence.  "If  you  really  mean 
me  to  have  potatoes  to-night,  it  won't  do  to  bake 
them;  there  is  n't  time." 

"You  really  intend  being  home  by  nine?" 

"Yes,  really.   Let's  put  them  on  to  boil.   Get 


some  water." 


She  was  brisk,  businesslike.    Bamfield  took  his 
orders  at  once.   He  dived  into  the  caravan,  came 


2  2  o  The  Caravan  Man 

out  with  a  saucepan,  flew  over  to  the  pond  and 
came  back  with  it  nearly  full.  Then  he  pulled  out 
a  plaited  rush  basket  with  quite  a  lot  of  potatoes 
in;  Rose  selected  four,  Bamfield  got  two  knives, 
one  for  her  and  one  for  himself,  and  they  both  com 
menced  to  peel  potatoes. 

"Don't  peel  them  so  thickly,"  Rose  admonished 
him.  "That's  wasteful."  Her  knife  was  flying 
dextrously  as  she  gave  him  his  directions.  "  Sorry," 
he  said,  and  honestly  laboured  to  profit  by  her  re 
proof.  She  saw  him  making  an  effort,  and  felt 
pleased.  He  was  frankly  conceding  her  the  com 
mand  of  things.  It  was  pleasant  to  realize  that 
she  was  in  charge  of  matters.  Usually  he  seemed 
rather  a  masterful  sort  of  man,  but  there  was 
no  question  now  of  whose  was  the  hand  on  the 
reins. 

Suddenly  she  looked  up  enquiringly.  "Yes?" 
said  Bamfield.  She  sniffed.  "I  thought — " 

Bamfield  sniffed  too.  "No,"  he  said.  "I 
thought — "  said  Rose  —  and  with  one  simultane 
ous  sniff  both  flung  down  their  knives,  dropped  the 
potatoes  and  leapt  to  the  fire.  Bamfield  whipped 
the  smoking  frying-pan  off  the  flames  .  .  . 

"  I  'm  sorry,"  was  all  he  could  say  for  a  minute. 

Nothing  but  the  ruddy  light  of  the  fire,  leaping 
as  if  in  wild  enjoyment  of  the  mischief  it  had 
wrought,  obscured  the  fiery  flush  of  confessed  in 
eptitude  that  mantled  over  Bamfield's  cheeks. 


The  Caravan  Man  221 

"Oh,  Lord !  —  done  for ! "  He  prodded  the  smok 
ing  mass  in  the  pan  disparagingly. 

Rose  looked  at  him,  restraining  magnificently 
the  blaze  of  conscious  superiority,  almost  flaring 
up  into  insolent  sex  arrogance,  that  flamed  within 
her.  She  eyed  him  steadily.  "If  ever  you  want  a 
place  as  chef,"  she  could  not  for  the  life  of  her  re 
frain  from  saying,  "refer  people  to  me,  will  you?" 

Even  under  the  blaze  of  the  fire  something  of 
Bamfield's  blush  betrayed  itself. 

"  I  hardly  know  how  to  look  you  in  the  face." 
It  was  true.  His  eye  wandered  undecidedly  into  the 
surrounding  night  as  if  in  search  of  succour;  the 
frying-pan  wavered  unsteadily  in  his  nerveless 
grip. 

"My  supper!"  she  said  inexorably.  It  was  lovely 
to  look  at  him,  unsmilingly,  almost  grimly,  and 
watch  his  faltering  gaze. 

Suddenly  he  pulled  himself  together  like  a  man. 
"You  shall  have  it."  He  buttoned  up  his  coat  and 
put  the  frying-pan  down. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  asked  Rose. 

He  dived  for  his  bicycle,  lying  under  the  caravan. 
"I'm  going  into  the  village.  Five  minutes  there, 
five  minutes  back — " 

"It's  half-past  eight —  the  shops  are  shut." 

"I'll  knock  one  of  them  up.  I '11  manage  it.  You 
think  I  'm  a  fool,  and  I  am  a  fool,  but  I  'm  not  such 
a  fool  as  not  to  be  able  to  get  you  something  to 


222  The  Caravan  Man 

eat.  Do  forgive  me.  Sit  by  the  fire,  and  in  posi 
tively  less  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour — " 

He  was  mounted,  wavering  away.  She  stopped 
him. 

"Stop!" 

He  stopped,  balancing. 

"Don't  go!"      . 

He  put  a  foot  to  the  ground.  "But  I  must — " 

"No,  you  must  n't.  It  won't  be  the  least  fun  to 
me  to  stay  here  alone.  Let's  sit  and  chat.  I  mean 
it."  He  saw  she  meant  it,  and  with  a  last  gesture 
of  apology,  dismounted,  and  came  over  to  her.  She 
sat  again  on  the  tree-root.  He  produced  his  ciga 
rette-case.  "You  don't  smoke,  do  you  ? "  She  shook 
her  head.  He  lit  one  for  himself.  Her  eyes  were 
dancing  with  merriment.  Spite  of  his  mortification 
he  could  not  help  laughing.  "I  hardly  know  how 
to  look  you  in  the  face.  There's  the  cruet  —  1 
don't  think  there's  any  mustard  in  it,  but  there's 
some  salt  and  a  little  pepper  —  perhaps.  And 
there's  some  bread  —  and  the  claret — "  His  eye 
looked  past  her,  and  a  fresh  spasm  of  embarrass 
ment  wavered  across  it.  He  struck  his  thigh  with 
real  anger.  "  I  'm  blest  if  I  have  n't  knocked  the 
bottle  over!"  He  stooped  and  picked  it  up.  It 
was  true.  The  wine  had  gone.  He  pitched  the 
bottle,  as  he  had  done  the  potatoes,  into  the  pond. 
It  gave  a  sniggering  "plop!"  as  it  struck  the  water. 

He  had  always  appeared  so  cool  and  confident 


The  Caravan  Man  223 

and  easy,  that  Rose  began  to  feel  uncomfortable 
herself.  Trying  to  turn  the  edge  of  his  discom 
fiture,  "Is  n't  this  a  case  for  magic?"  she  asked. 

"Magic?"  said  Bamfield. 

"You  said  you  were  a  magician,"  she  reminded 
him.  "Well,  if  you  really  are,  here's  just  the  chance 
to  show  me  what  you  can  do.  Have  you  got  your 
wand  handy  —  or  do  you  usually  rub  a  lamp?" 

Bamfield  felt  grateful  to  her  for  her  trifling. 

"My  magic's  a  bit  rusty,"  he  told  her,  "but  if 
you  like  we'll  give  it  a  chance.  Shall  I  order,  or 
will  you?  What  would  you  like?  —  chops  and 
tomatoes?" 

"No,  thank  you."  She  was  decided.  "There's 
something  unlucky  about  chops  and  tomatoes  to 
night.  If  you  don't  mind,  we  '11  try  something  else." 

"Anything  you  like,"  said  Bamfield  spaciously. 

"Then,  I  think  I'd  like  some —  some  ham,  deli 
cately  cut — " 

"Cold,  I  suppose?" 

"Yes,  cold;  cut  thin." 

"  Some  ham  for  the  lady,  cold,  cut  thin,"  Bam 
field  threw  over  his  shoulder,  apparently  to  an 
invisible  but  no  doubt  attentive  genie. 

"A  nice  roll,"  continued  Rose. 

"Roll,  superior  quality,"  said  Bamfield.  "Do  I 
share  your  roll,  or  am  I  left  out  of  this  supper?" 

"You  may  order  two  rolls,"  she  conceded.  "I 
am  ordering  for  you  as  well  as  for  myself." 


224  The  Caravan  Man 

"Two  rolls."  Bamfield  passed  the  order  on. 
"And  some  butter,  I  presume?" 

"Thank  you." 

"Pray  don't  mention  it.  And  to  drink?" 

"  Some  claret,  please." 

"Oh,  no,  no,  not  claret.  Come;  to  please  me,  let 
yourself  go  a  bit.  Why  not  champagne?" 

"The  expense,"  she  objected. 

"Dismiss  the  thought.  To  my  attendant  sprite 
cost  is  a  negligible  factor.  Champagne,  then.  Now, 
is  that  all  ?  Ham,  rolls,  butter,  and  a  bottle  —  no, 
let's  be  lavish — suppose  we  say,  a  couple  of 
bottles,  of  champagne?  Right?"  She  nodded. 
"Have  you  got  a  ring?  Yes,  that  one  on  your 
finger." 

"It's  my  mother's." 

"Then  there's  magic  in  it.  Kindly  rub  it."  She 
rubbed  it  as  he  directed.  "  Slave  of  the  ring,"  he 
continued  in  a  deep  bass  voice,  "you  hear  the  lady? 
Appear,  with  the  articles  enumerated  .  .  ." 

He  did  not  fall  over,  he  merely  sat  still  as  a  stone, 
after  one  little  gasp;  but  Rose,  leaning  forward, 
with  a  start,  clutched  at  his  arm. 

From  the  gloom  of  the  tree  under  which  they 
sat  came  a  movement,  the  approach  of  a  human 
figure,  moving  carefully,  bearing  more  than  one 
small  burden.  Moving  a  trifle  unsteadily  out  of  the 
shadows,  the  form  of  Mr.  Jarge  Gubbins  material 
ized  before  their  eyes. 


The  Caravan  Man  225 

In  his  present  attire  Mr.  Gubbins  had  struck  — 
and  struck  extremely  loudly  —  that  note  of  gaiety 
which  throughout  the  ages  has  been  acclaimed  by 
the  great  mass  of  human  opinion  as  the  correct 
one  for  an  occasion  such  as  that  in  which  he  had 
that  morning  borne  a  principal  part.  A  white  and 
glossily  ironed  waistcoat,  a  blue-and-yellow  tie,  a 
coat  and  trousers  of  a  grey  ground  over  which  was 
drawn  with  firm  and  uncompromising  hand  a  cross- 
pattern  of  black-lined  squares;  light-brown  boots, 
a  soft  grey  hat  —  carve  him  in  stone  and  tint  him, 
and  you  had  for  all  time  an  embodiment  of  the  soul 
of  man  walking  hand  in  hand  with  merriment.  And 
if  his  gait  hinted  at  a  pretty  waywardness,  if  his 
speech  struck  you  less  in  its  clarity  of  diction  than 
in  its  hearty  good-nature,  why,  there  are  times  and 
seasons,  look  you,  and  there  are  other  times  and 
seasons.  The  austerities  of  human  conduct  may 
with  propriety  relax  on  occasion,  within  reason; 
nay,  there  are  moments  when  a  rigid  adherence  to 
the  rule  of  every  day  may  be  said  to  smack  of 
actual  impropriety.  The  morning  trappings  of  woe 
were  for  the  most  part  disposed  under  his  arm  in  a 
bundle.  The  hat  that  had  so  malignantly  mocked 
in  its  ironic  proclamation  of  grief  the  inward  hilarity 
of  its  wearer  was  now  borne,  crape  band  and  all, 
by  the  rim,  in  his  hand,  plainly  a  despised  and 
rejected  thing. 

Happy,  hospitable,  beaming,  he  came  forward 


226  The  Caravan  Man 

with  a  wide-footed  stride  to  where  Rose  and  Barn- 
field,  sitting  motionless  on  the  tree-roots,  waited 
the  unfolding  of  his  mission.  In  his  right  hand  he 
bore  two  dinner  plates,  their  concave  surfaces 
opposed  to  each  other;  one  might  reasonably  con 
ceive  that  they  bore  between  them  a  delectable 
edible. 

He  wagged  his  head  at  Bamfield.  "You  did  n't 
coom  down  this  arternoon,  mister,"  he  said.  "We 
wus  expeckin'  you."  He  caught  sight  of  Rose  and 
touched  the  brim  of  his  hat  with  the  brim  of  the 
crape-bound  topper  he  carried.  "Oh,  good-evenin', 
Miss  Nieugente.  I  w's  sayin'  to  this  young  feller, 
'e  did  n't  coom  as  we  expected.  Dolly,  my  new 
missis,  she  ses  to  me  not  'arf  an  hour  ago, 1 1  expect 
'e  Js  shy-like,  this  bein'  our  weddin'  night.'  *  'E 
don't  seem  to  want  narthin'  to  dew  wi'  our  'am,'  I 
ses,  'but  arst  'im  I  did,  and  'ave  it  'e  shall,'  so  I 
cuts  'im  off  'is  share,  and  up  I  pops." 

Rose  saw  Bamfield's  lips  faintly  moving,  caught 
a  reference  to  "Jarge,  my  preserver,"  and  what 
sounded  like  a  quotation  regarding  Providence, 
and  drunken  men,  and  fools. 

Mr.  Gubbins  had  removed  the  top  one  of  the 
two  plates  in  his  right  hand.  As  if  interested  in 
the  proceedings,  a  merry  little  flame  curled  up  from 
the  fire  and  had  a  look.  There  was  displayed  a 
generous  quantity  of  thin  slices  of  a  ham  that  at 
a  glance  you  could  tell  touched  the  pinnacle  of 


The  Caravan  Man  227 

ham's  possibilities  of  achievement.  He  knelt  down 
before  the  other  two  and  deposited  his  offering  on 
the  grass.  More  was  to  come.  One  by  one  Mr. 
Gubbins  took  from  under  his  arm  other  gifts. 

"'Ere,"  said  he,  unwrapping  some  tissue  paper, 
"  'ere 's  some  rolls,  an'  some  butter  as  Dolly  made 
'erself  —  for  rolls,  fancy  bread,  an'  butter  you 
won't  meet  Dolly's  equal  in  a  long  day's  march. 
And  —  well  —  I  dunno'  'ow  you  fancies  this  sort 
of  stuff,  but  there's  a  couple  o'  bottles,  Dolly  and 
me  ain't  got  no  use  for  it  —  good  old  ale  for  ever, 
I  ses,  —  but  Dolly's  uncle  in  Lunnon,  'e  sent  us 
down  a  dozen  bottles  —  you  may  as  well  'ave  a  go 
at  it,  and  if  you  likes  it  there's  the  rest  when  you 
wants  it." 

Still  the  two  on  the  tree-root  sat  almost  motion 
less  while  Mr.  Gubbins  displayed  on  the  grass 
before  their  eyes,  in  the  bright  light  of  the  inquisi 
tive  flame,  the  ham,  the  rolls,  the  butter,  and 
finally  two  bottles,  sloping-shouldered,  wrapped 
delicately  round  the  throat  with  silver  paper,  below 
which  one  spied  a  white  label,  on  which  was  written 
a  title  in  a  delicate  copper-plate  hand  — 

"There!"  said  Mr.  Gubbins,  in  conclusion,  rest 
ing  on  one  knee. 

Bamfield  roused  to  motion.  He  stood  up,  and 
with  the  gesture  of  a  king  doing  honour  to  some 
returned  victorious  general,  he  raised  Mr.  Gubbins 
from  his  kneeling  posture. 


228  The  Caravan  Man 

"Jarge,"  he  said  with  feeling,  "I  have  no 
words."  He  shook  Mr.  Gubbins  by  the  hand. 

Rose  also  stood  up.  She  was  a  little  breathless. 
She  had  really  felt  a  little  frightened  on  Mr.  Gub- 
bins's  first  entry.  Do  not  smile  superior  at  her. 
Rub  a  ring,  as  she  did,  make  a  request  to  unknown 
forces  and  agencies,  and  get  on  that  instant  an 
answer  amply,  generously  acquiescing,  and  are 
your  nerves  so  steady  as  to  be  beyond  all  tremor? 

"We're  very  much  obliged  to  you,  Mr.  Gub 
bins,"  said  Rose. 

The  owner  of  the  watercreese  beds  bowed  with 
manly  grace,  keeping  his  feet  well  apart  as  he  did 
so.  "Welcome,  Miss  Rose."  He  meant  it  in  his 
country  fashion. 

The  plain  man  in  Bamfield  instantly  responded. 
"Jarge,  you  must  stay  and  have  supper  with  us. 
Must  n't  he,  Miss  Rose?" 

"Nunno,"said Gubbins  archly;  "two's  company. 
Good-night,  master;  good-night,  Miss  Nieugente." 

"Well,  good-night,  Jarge,"  said  Bamfield.  "I 
said  it  before,  and  I  say  it  again  —  my  preserver." 

"We're  very,  very  much  obliged,  Mr.  Gubbins," 
said  Rose. 

Gubbins  beamed  kindly.  "Lord  love  'ee,  miss, 
ye 're  welcome  .  .  .  Shall  I  sing  ye  a  song  afore 
I  go?" 

Rose  looked  at  Bamfield.  Bamfield,  spite  of  a 
real  gratitude,  was  quite  willing  to  see  the  back  of 


The  Caravan  Man  229 

Gubbins,  but,  all  things  considered,  thought  it  best 
to  humour  him. 

"Go  on,  Jarge.  What  was  the  one  you  sang  all 
the  way  home  from  the  Pink  and  Lily?" 

"'Dadder  and  'is  ladder'?"  suggested  Mr. 
Gubbins. 

"That's  it." 

Mr.  Gubbins  smiled  broadly,  cleared  his  throat, 
and  commenced  his  song :  — 

"My  ol'  dadder,  'e  coom  acrass  the  medder, 
An'  he  brart  along  a  ladder,  as  'andy  as  could  be. 
O  the  fruit  won't  get  no  redder,  an'  I'll  be  all  the  gladder 
When  I  picks  a  prarper  basket  from  my  gert  apple-tree." 

Bamfield  had  strolled  over  to  the  caravan,  and 
from  the  driver's  seat  had  picked  up  his  concer 
tina.  He  felt  for  a  chord  or  two,  found  the  key,  and 
by  the  end  of  the  verse  was  putting  in  a  harmony. 

"The  blind  cow  coom"  —  went  on  Mr.  Gubbins —  "as  quiet 

as  a  shadder, 

Jest  as  fancy  led  'er,  so  ladylike  an'  free. 
Nothin'  could  be  sadder  w'en  her  harns  caught  in  the  ladder, 
And  dadder  took  a  header  down  his  gert  apple-tree." 

Full  accompaniment  this  time.  Mr.  Gubbins 
appreciated  it,  and  let  his  voice  ring  nobly  out:  — 

"Then  dadder  'e  got  madder  than  an  adder,  yes,  an'  badder, 
At  the  ladder  in  the  shadder  an'  the  cow  that  could  n't  see. 
An'  parson  who  was  passin'  left  us  word  that  dadder  had  a 

bad  a- 
—  Ttack  of  somethin'  narsty  round  his  gert  apple-tree." 


230  The  Caravan  Man 

That  last  verse  went  in  great  style  and  at  its 
finish  Mr.  Gubbins  did  quite  an  excellent  toe- 
dance,  a  most  surprising  and  unexpected  perform 
ance,  staggery  at  the  finish,  but  successfully  con 
cluded. 

Rose  clapped;  so  did  Bamfield;  and  Gubbins, 
skilful  to  retire  with  all  the  wonder  of  success  wav 
ing  about  him,  took  a  resolute  leave.  "Now  I  must 
be  off,  and  'ome  to  bed's  soon's  I've  a  done  with 
these  ol'  blacks  o'  mine." 

"What  are  you  goin'  to  do  with  them,  Jarge?" 
asked  Bamfield,  really  curious. 

Jarge  shook  his  head,  cunningly.  "Nunno,  don't 
arsk  me.  I  'm  going  to  'ave  a  lark  with  'em  —  never 
you  mind  what.  You'll  see.  Coom  down  to  the 
farm  to-morrer  and  you'll  see  what  I  done  with 
'em.  I'm  goin'  to  'ave  my  own  back."  He  grinned 
heartily  at  his  own  joke.  "Good-night,  Miss 
Nieugente.  I  must  be  off.  It's  early  yet,  but  what 
I  say  is,  if  a  man  won't  go  'ome  early  on  'is  weddin* 
night,  w'y,  w'en  will  'e  go  'ome?" 

Propounding  this  riddle,  he  moved  away,  a  little 
unsteadily,  and  vanished  into  the  night,  turning 
once  to  wave  the  crape-bound  top-hat  to  the  two 
by  the  fire.  One  might  note  that  his  left  foot  was 
not  sure  as  to  the  way  he  wanted  to  go.  His  right 
foot,  however,  was  quite  sure  —  and  quite  wrong  . . . 

"Well!"  said  Rose,  drawing  a  long  breath. 

Bamfield  began  to  examine  the  two  bottles. 


The  Caravan  Man  231 

"The  least  we  can  do  now  is  to  drink  Mr.  Gub- 
bins's  very  good  health,  Miss  Rose.  I  have  n't 
champagne  glasses,  but  from  this  label  I  anticipate 
something  that  will  excuse  the  glass."  He  filled 
the  two  claret  glasses,  and  Rose  felt  she  could  do 
no  less  than  drink  the  toast  heartily — "Gubbins 
—  God  bless  him!" 

But  she  was  really  hungry  now.  "Supper, 
quick!"  she  commanded. 

Bamfield  dropped  on  his  knees  beside  her.  "My 
word!  there's  enough  ham  for  three — " 

"Quick,  then,"  said  Rose;  "you  know  you've 
been  starving  me." 

He  handed  her  a  plate  with  some  ham  on,  helped 
himself,  passed  her  the  crust,  the  rolls,  the  butter — 

What  wonder  in  that  meal!  At  times  Rose  found 
herself  in  doubt  whether  all  this  delightful  hour 
were  not  a  piece  of  magic,  witchcraft,  a  dream 
which  a  cunning  necromancy  had  informed  with 
a  realism  that  must,  however,  suddenly  dissolve 
and  leave  her  dismally  awake  and  disappointed. 

But  there  —  she  looked  round  —  was  the  cara 
van,  lights  gleaming  prettily  through  its  little  win 
dows,  its  half-opened  door;  there  was  the  fire,  the 
trees  seen  shadowily,  the  vague  blackness  of  the 
lake  behind  the  reeds,  the  caravan  man  himself, 
crouched  near  her,  eating  ham,  buttering  his  roll  — 
It  was  all  true.  No  dream,  this. 

He  looked  up  at  her,  held  her  eye  for  a  minute. 


232  The  Caravan  Man 

Perhaps  he  read  something  of  her  delight,  for  he 
smiled  very  pleasantly. 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  of  my  ham?"  he  asked. 

"Yours!"  She  stared  at  him  coldly.  "You  may 
thank  Gubbins  for  saving  you  from  a  most  humili 
ating  situation." 

He  put  his  knife  and  fork  down.  "I  like  that! 
Here's  gratitude!  At  your  request  I  perform  under 
your  nose  an  elaborate  and  exhausting  miracle, 
and  —  well,  really,  after  this — "  He  took  up  his 
knife  and  fork  again,  and  attacked  his  supper 
with  an  air  of  having,  from  this  moment,  aban 
doned  her  to  her  unreason. 

She  giggled.  "It's  delicious  ham.  Mr.  Jones,  is 
it  as  nice  as  I  think,  or  is  it  just  having  it  like  this 
—  you  know,  out  here  —  by  your  fire?" 

"I  think,"  he  answered,  "the  ham  is  a  very  fair 
ham,  but,  candidly,  the  super-excellence  you 
detect  is  probably  due  to  your  having  it  with  me, 
I  expect.  Agreeable  company  means  so  much  when 
one's  eating." 

Rose  looked  at  him  with  compressed  lips.  "Your 
fault,  Mr.  Jones,  if  you  have  a  fault  —  I  say,  if  you 
have  a  fault  —  is  over-modesty.  Try  to  think  a 
little  more  of  yourself.  Cultivate  self-esteem." 

He  lifted  a  deprecating  hand.  "Don't  urge  me 
to.  It  is  so  foreign  to  my  nature.  Is  n't  this  but 
ter  wonderful?" 

"Top  hole.  And  the  rolls,  scrumptious." 


The  Caravan  Man  233 

"Ha,  ha,  ha!  Go  on;  I  like  to  hear  you  use 
slang." 

She  felt  rebuked.  "  It  seems  to  go  with  the  ham 
—  and  the  fire  —  and  your  jolly  old  caravan,  and 
talking  like  this.  I  'm  a  little  blackguard,  are  n't 
I,  talking  with  my  mouth  full?" 

Bamfield  laughed.  "Ha,  ha,  ha!" 

"Ha,  ha,  ha!"  laughed  Rose  in  return.  "Oh, 
don't  make  me  laugh!"  She  leaned  back  a  little. 
"What  are  we  laughing  at?" 

Bamfield  could  only  laugh  again.  It  was  fun  — 
and  she  was  so  —  was  so —  Impossible  to  pick 
the  right  word  for  her. 

She  went  on:  "Doesn't  a  fire  in  the  open  at 
night  make  you  feel  — " 

"Yes?" 

"I  don't  know."  She  looked  around.  "What 
ever  do  people  live  in  houses  for,  like  plants  in  a 
pot?  This  is  jolly.  I  do  like  being  here.  You  said 
this  afternoon,  you'd  have  something  to  show  me 
to-night.  What  is  it?" 

Bamfield  put  his  plate  aside  and  rose.  "This 
is  n't  quite  the  light  to  see  it  in,"  he  remarked. 

He  went  into  the  caravan  and  brought  out  a 
painted  canvas  and  handed  it  to  her.  She  looked 
at  it  eagerly.  She  was  puzzled.  Was  it  a  tremen 
dously  clever  thing?  No,  she  decided.  It  was  so 
simple  —  the  pond,  painted  from  the  other  side, 
with  the  old  tree  and  the  red-wheeled  caravan  half 


234  The  Caravan  Man 

hidden  in  its  shade;  a  piece  of  broad  work,  mas 
terly  simple,  with  the  gigantic  confidence  that 
Bamfield  had  found  within  himself  only  since  he 
had  resigned  his  studio  life  and  widened  the  scope 
of  his  effort. 

Its  very  simplicity  daunted  Rose.  Yet  it  caught 
her  too. 

"It's  wonderful,"  she  said.  "That  is  to  say, 
it's  quite  good.  The  pond  —  yes —  When  did 
you  do  it?" 

"  *  Early  one  morning,  just  as  the  sun  was  ris 
ing  — '"  lilted  Bamfield.  ' 

"  *  I  heard  a  maid  sing  — '  "  she  went  on  with 
the  song.  "Oh,  if  you  could  only  finish  it." 

Bamfield  moved  nearer,  leaning  against  the 
tree  trunk,  and  looking  down  at  his  own  work  as 
she  held  it. 

"Finish  it?"  he  said. 

"Of  course,"  said  Rose  firmly.  "It  wants 
smoothing  up."  Bamfield's  tremendous  brushwork 
was  something  a  little  beyond  her. 

"Wants  smoothing  up!  Oh,  does  it?" 

"Certainly.  You  ought  to  work  this  up."  She 
regarded  it  again  at  arm's  length.  It  certainly  was 
promising,  most  promising.  "If  you  like,"  she 
went  on,  "  I  '11  show  you  how  to  go  on  with  this." 

"You  are  good,"  replied  Bamfield  gratefully. 
"You  —  you  know  a  lot  about  painting,  I  sup 
pose?" 


The  Caravan  Man  235 

Rose  looked  up  at  him  with  modest  pride.  "I 
have  two  South  Kensington  certificates,"  she  re 
plied. 

The  tone  was  lovely.  Bamfield  hugged  himself 
with  sheer  joy.  She  was  not  boasting;  she  was 
merely  stating,  with  modest  reserve,  a  fact  that 
had  an  important  bearing  on  their  relations  and 
his  possible  future. 

"Two!"  said  Bamfield,  with  never  a  flicker  of 
a  smile.  "Two  certificates!  Oh,  I  say!" 

"What?" 

"Is  that  quite  fair?  —  two  certificates,  when  so 
many,  perhaps  thousands,  of  people  have  n't  got 
even  one?  I  say,  you  did  n't  cheat,  did  you?" 

She  reassured  him  earnestly,  flushing  a  little. 
"Of  course  not —  I  would  n't." 

"Of  course,  I  ought  to  have  known.  Still,  you 
must  be  frightfully  clever." 

"Oh,  no,  I'm  not.  Don't  you  think  that  for  an 
instant.  But  I  worked  hard.  You  see,  I  had  two 
hours'  painting  twice  a  week  for  nearly  two  years." 

"Really?"  said  Bamfield,  and  appeared  lost  in 
thought.  "Do  you  think,  if  I  worked  hard,  that  I 
could  get  into  your  style?" 

"Why  not?"  she  answered  encouragingly,  and 
scrutinized  the  picture  at  arm's  length  again. 
"Really,  this  is  quite  promising.  Do  you  like 
painting?" 

"Yes." 


236  The  Caravan  Man 

"Then  why  don't  you  learn?" 

Bamfield  looked  at  her  yearningly.  "Do  you 
really  think  I  could?" 

("I'm  a  rotten  cad,"  he  said  to  himself,  "but 
I  can't  help  it.  She's  —  she's  —  oh,  she's  simply 
the  sweetest!") 

Rose  considered  him  gravely.  "I  feel  sure  you 
could.  You  must  have  tried  before,  have  n't  you  ?" 

"Once  or  twice,"  admitted  Bamfield. 

"Then  why  not  keep  on  with  it?  How  pleasant 
it  would  be  for  you  on  dark  evenings,  when  you 
don't  know  what  to  do  with  yourself."  Bamfield 
laughed.  "What  is  it?"  asked  Rose  anxiously. 

Bamfield  checked  his  chuckle.  "Oh,  I  was 
thinking  what  a  fool  I've  been  not  to  think  of  it 
before  —  art  as  a  harmless  hobby  for  dark  eve 
nings.  It  would  —  well,  it  would  keep  me  out  of 
the  pubs,  don't  you  think?" 

She  looked  distressed.  "Don't  speak  like  that. 
I  can't  believe  that  of  you.  Of  course,  it  means  a 
lot  of  study  —  a  lot  of  study.  But  you  would  per 
severe.  You  might  be  able  to  paint  up  some  of 
your  photos." 

"Great!"  responded  Bamfield,  with  eager  in 
terest.  "  So  I  might.  Genuine  hand-coloured,  five 
shillings  a  dozen  extra." 

"Or  even  more,"  said  Rose  earnestly.  "Don't 
think  me  rude,  but  when  I  think  of  you,  all  alone 
in  a  caravan,  I  do  so  feel  that  you  ought  to  be 


The  Caravan  Man  237 

making  something  of  a  position  for  yourself.  And, 
you  see,  you  might  make  quite  a  name." 

"And  get  a  shop?" 

"Yes.  Oh,  you're  laughing  at  me!"  For  the 
life  of  him  Bamfield  could  not  quite  smother  the 
ghost  of  a  grin.  "Very  well,  then.  I  was  silly  to 
speak  about  it."  She  felt  hurt. 

"Not  a  bit,"  said  Bamfield.  "Come,  let's  drink 
to  the  success  of  the  lessons  you're  going  to  give 
me.  Now,  look  here.  Tell  me,  would  you  seri 
ously  advise  me  to  drop  photography  and  try  to 
learn  to  paint?" 

Rose  hesitated.  "Well—" 

"Come,  now,"  said  Bamfield  firmly.  "I  want 
your  advice.  Shall  I?" 

Rose  felt  her  position  keenly.  Her  enthusiasm 
had  carried  her  away.  She  had  been  urging  him 
on  perhaps  too  irresponsibly,  and  here  she  was  con 
fronted  with  the  fact  that  apparently  his  future 
was  to  depend  on  her  advice.  It  was  a  thrilling 
thought,  but  a  terrifying. 

"You  make  me  frightened,"  she  confessed.  "I 
know  it's  a  difficult  thing  to  throw  up  one  — 
career  —  and  take  up  another.  You  see,  you've 
got  —  well,  a  living  at  least  in  your  photography, 
have  n't  you?" 

"That's  it  — that's  just  what  I'm  thinking," 
said  Bamfield. 

"And  suppose  you  threw  that  away  and  did  n't 


238  The  Caravan  Man 

really  succeed  at  painting?  How  much  do  you 
earn?" 

"It  varies.  Sometimes  it's  as  much  as  two 
pounds,  even  two  pounds  ten,  in  a  week.  Another 
week  it  may  be  only  a  sovereign." 

"H'm!  That's  not  so  very  much,  is  it?" 

"No?" 

"Not  for  a  photographer,"  she  said  judiciously. 
"But  I  dare  say  it  would  be  rather  a  lot  for  an 
artist.  But  then  an  artist  can  paint  all  the  year 
round,  while  I  don't  suppose  you  do  much  pho 
tography  in  the  winter." 

He  shuddered.  "The  winter  —  the  winter's  a 
terrible  time.  Don't  talk  about  the  cruel  winter." 

He  did  it  very  well,  but  even  Rose  had  to  look 
hard  at  him. 

"I  wish,"  she  said,  "that  this  fire  were  a  little 
brighter." 

He  poked  the  fire.  "There  you  are,  then.  Why?' 

"I  thought,  perhaps,  if  I  looked  at  you  in  a  bet 
ter  light,  I  might  tell  if  you  're  talking  seriously." 

"Do  you  doubt  me?" 

"Sometimes.  That's  rude,  isn't  it?  But  — 
you  know  —  I  can't  help  feeling  —  how  queer  — 
You're  only  a  photographer,  jogging  about  in  a 
caravan  and  afraid  of  hardships  in  winter.  Afraid 
—  you!  You  don't  look  as  if  you  would  be  afraid 
of  anything  —  not  easily.  And  yet  you  ask  me  if 
I  would  advise  you  to  go  in  for  painting.  Do  you 


The  Caravan  Man  239 

know,  I  feel  as  if  I  could  say,  'Yes,  go  in  for  any 
thing.  Don't  be  afraid.  Dare  it!  Dare  it!'  Oh, 
you  would  succeed !  I  know  —  I  feel  it  in  me  — 
you  would !  You  can't  have  tried  —  Why  do  you 
look  at  me  like  that?  Am  I  silly?" 

Bamfield  drew  a  deep  breath.  "You're —  No, 
never  mind." 

She  had  been  leaning  forward  as  she  spoke,  her 
eagerness  and  interest  in  him  displaying  them 
selves  unchecked,  in  her  face  and  her  eyes  a  spark 
of  that  divine  fire  that,  leaping  from  the  feminine 
to  the  receptive  male,  has  set  the  world  aflame 
before  now. 

She  retreated  within  her  own  borders  again, 
shyly.  "-And  if  you  make  a  great  success,  and  grow 
rich  as  rich,  give  me  your  old  caravan." 

"What  do  you  want  it  for?" 

"I  wish  I  had  it  now.  Wouldn't  I  wander!" 
She  stood  up.  "I'd  fly  about—" 

"Oh,  no,  you  would  n't,"  interrupted  Bamfield, 
lighting  a  cigarette.  "  Seen  my  mare  ?  Her  flying 
days  are  done." 

"I'd  coax  her.  I'd  go  all  over  England,  up  to 
high  mountain  tops — " 

"My  poor  Egeria!  If  you  knew  how  she  suffers 
from  nerves." 

"  She  need  n't  come  right  up." 

"She  would  n't." 

"Would  she  wait  for  me  at  the  bottom?" 


240  The  Caravan  Man 

"Ah,  now  you  have  it!  You've  guessed  her 
secret!  Waiting  for  you  —  motionless  —  for  hours 
—  still  as  a  marble  horse  —  faithful  Egeria,  that's 
her  great  stunt!" 

"  I  'd  bathe  in  lonely  lakes  and  rivers." 

"Forty  shillings  and  costs  every  time,"  said 
Bamfield. 

"I  don't  care.  I'd  wander.- on  seashores,  over 
moors.  I'd  let  the  winds  blow  about  me.  I'd  go 
through  France,  Italy,  Spain,  Egypt — " 

"  Egeria 's  going  to  have  a  wonderful  old  age. 
The  grand  tour  to  wind  up  with." 

"I'd  wander  for  ever  and  ever.  In  a  hundred 
years,  travellers  would  report  that  somewhere 
in  the  Sahara  or  on  Siberian  steppes,  they'd 
passed  a  wrinkled  old  woman,  with  her  knees  to 
her  nose  and  her  nose  to  her  chin,  driving  along  in 
a  creaking  old  caravan  — " 

"Some  creak!" 

"With  an  attenuated  mare — " 

"And  some  attentuation!" 

"And  she'd  sent  home  word  to  her  granny  not 
to  worry,  and  she  was  coming  home  when  she  was 
tired  of  it.  Oh,  Mr.  Jones — "  She  pulled  up 
hastily  in  her  rhapsody. 

"What  is  it?" 

"Am  I  talking  too  much?" 

"Not  a  bit.  Why?" 

"A  dreadful  thought's  just  struck  me.    You 


The  Caravan  Man  241 

know,  I'm  not  used  to  champagne."  She  sat 
down,  with  a  gleam  of  apprehension  usurping  in 
her  face  the  glow  of  a  few  seconds  before.  "Am 
I  —  is  it  possible — ?" 

"Not  unless  you  want  to  get  up  and  dance," 
Bamneld  reassured  her  gravely. 

"But  I  do!  Let  me  see."  She  looked  round 
doubtfully.  "One  caravan,  one  fire  — -  and  there's 
you."  She  started.  "Two  plates,  though!  Yes, 
there  are  two.  It's  all  right.  Now  I  promise  to 
talk  sensibly." 

Bamneld  laughed.  Rose  joined  in.  Their  merri 
ment  rang  pleasantly  together  under  the  tree. 
The  fire  flickered.  Bamneld  threw  some  more 
sticks  on.  It  leapt  up,  making  the  darkness  about 
them  more  solid.  The  red  Chinese  lantern  swayed 
in  a  light  breeze.  Rose  sat  smiling  down  at  Barn- 
field,  who  smiled  up  in  return.  Both  were  thrilling. 

"You  're  not  afraid  of  being  romantic,  are  you  ? " 
he  said. 

"No,"  she  responded.  "I  suppose  it's  my 
father's  blood  in  me.  Talking  to  you  about  paint 
ing  has  made  me  think  of  our  old  studio  at  Prim 
rose  Hill.  I  wonder  who  lives  there  now,  and  if 
he's  scrubbed  my  picture  off  the  wall." 

"He  has  n't."  Bamfield  rapped  that  out  before 
he  could  check  himself. 

"How  do  you  know?"  she  asked  in  some  aston 
ishment. 


242  The  Caravan  Man 

"It's  obvious  he  wouldn't.  Do  you  think  you 
could  go  back  to  live  in  a  studio?"  ("Now,  why 
do  I  ask  that?  Steady,  Bamfield,  my  lad!") 

"I'd  love  to!"  Rose  answered,  clasping  her 
hands.  "  It  was  such  a  queer,  lovely  life,  so  scrapy 
for  money,  but  so  —  so  —  different  from  any  other 
—  except,  perhaps  your  caravan.  I  'm  a  bohemian. 
It's  the  spirit  of  the  caravan  getting  hold  of  me. 
I  feel  like  a  gipsy  —  as  if  I  could  crawl  into  a  little 
tent  of  sticks  and  skins  and  sleep  till  morning,  and 
get  up,  and  —  and  gather  bulrushes,  and  take 
them  into  the  towns  to  sell  them." 

"Good,"  said  Bamfield.  "And  I'll  come  with 
you  and  steal  chickens." 

"No,  no,"  she  objected.  "We'd  be  honest  gip 
sies,  if  we  starved  for  it." 

"We  should,  if  we  were  honest  gipsies.  They  all 
starved  long  ago." 

"Well,  then,  I'd  turn  cart-wheels  for  pennies." 

"Heavens,  no!"  he  objected.  "I'd  rather  work, 
bitter  though  it  might  be  to  my  proud  gipsy  na 
ture.  Or  —  I  tell  you  what  —  you  should  tell  for 
tunes.  *  Shall  I  tell  your  fortune,  my  pretty  gen 
tleman?  Ah,  it's  the  wicked  eye  you've  got!" 

"Oh,  yes;  they  always  say  that.  Why  do  men 
like  to  be  told  they've  got  wicked  eyes?" 

"The  best  men  don't.  I  don't.  But  you  could 
tell  fortunes." 

"Could  I?" 


The  Caravan  Man  243 

"Of  course.  Tell  mine." 

"Shall  I?"  She  hesitated,  blushing  a  little,  but 
he  shifted  nearer  and  put  his  hand  into  hers,  and 
she  took  up  the  role  of  fortune-teller,  leaning  for 
ward  to  peer  at  the  lines  in  his  hand.  "What's 
this  line?  Life,  of  course."  She  perpended  a  mo 
ment.  Then,  "You'll  live  to  be  a  hundred  and 
forty,"  she  announced. 

"A  hundred  and  forty!  One  of  the  real  old  lads 
of  the  village!" 

She  went    on    more    confidently:  "You  will 


marry." 

"Only  once?" 


"Four  times." 

He  protested.  "But  I've  given  away  my  beau 
tiful  carpet-sweeper!  Is  n't  there  some  mistake?" 

"No,"  she  answered,  a  superb  decision  having 
by  now  been  adopted  as  the  proper  professional 
pose.  "See  that  line?  That's  Providence." 

"Huh!"  he  ejaculated  scornfully.  "Why  don't 
you  learn  your  job  properly?  That  came  off  the 
handle  of  the  frying-pan." 

She  swept  his  objection  aside.  "I  don't  care. 
There's  the  line.  You  and  Providence  and  the 
frying-pan  can  argue  it  out  among  you.  You'll 
see  a  lot  of  trouble." 

"A  lot  of  trouble  —  four  times  married.  No 
inconsistency  so  far,  I  admit." 

"You  will  have  —  let  me  see  —  one,  two,  three, 
four,  five  children." 


244  The  Caravan  Man 

He  tried  to  pull  his  hand  away.  "Don't  be  ab 
surd  !  Think  of  the  price  of  boots." 

She  held  his  hand  firmly.  "Don't  be  a  coward. 
Besides,  children  are  lovely.  The  first  four  will 
be  boys." 

"Will  they  wash  their  necks?" 

She  could  not  check  the  gleam  of  fun  that  for  a 
moment  peeped  out  of  her  eyes  and  spoiled  the 
priestess-like  gravity  of  countenance  she  had  as 
sumed  as  part  of  her  professional  make-up. 

"Boys,  I  said." 

Bamfield  accepted  it.  "All  right,"  he  said,  toss 
ing  his  cigarette  end  away,  and  shifting  closer. 
"What's  the  other?" 

"The  other  —  the  other's  —  I'll  let  you  guess." 

He  looked  away,  thought  hard,  then,  with  a 
gleam  of  happy  discovery,  "A  girl?"  he  ventured 
confidently. 

"Right.  Right,  first  time!"  She  approved  his 
cleverness.  "And  she'll  be  such  a  beautiful  little 
girl,  twelve  years  old." 

"When  will  she  be  twelve  years  old?" 

She  examined  his  hand  again  with  close  atten 
tion.  "Just  before  her  thirteenth  year." 

"Are  n't  you  clever!"  he  returned  her,  warmly. 
"Shall  I  be  rich?" 

"Frightfully." 

"When  do  I  many?" 

"Soon." 


The  Caravan  Man  245 

"What's  her  name?" 

"I  don't  know." 

Bamfield  was  on  his  knees  before  her.  She 
leaned  back  from  him  and  dropped  his  hand. 
Something  of  tension  came  into  the  atmosphere. 
Bamfield  sensed  it  first,  made  an  effort  to  keep 
the  conversation  on  the  lines  of  sheer  jesting — 
and  failed. 

"You're  not  much  of  a  gipsy,"  he  said.  "Tell 
me,  does  anybody  love  me?" 

"I  don't  know'" 

"My  good  girl,  you  don't  appear  to  have  served 
a  proper  apprenticeship  to  your  trade.  You  must 
n't  keep  on  saying  4 1  don't  know.'  You  must  have 
a  stock  of  plausible  lies  at  hand." 

"Oh,  no,  please!"  She  flushed  even  at  the  jest 
of  such  a  thing. 

"Well,  then,  I'm  afraid  we  must  surrender  this 
idea  of  fortune-telling  and  fall  back  on  Catherine- 
wheels,  unless"  —  with  a  touch  of  bitter  resigna 
tion  — "  unless  you  really  intend  to  compel  me 
to  work,  after  all?" 

"Come,  be  fair,"  she  said.  "I  think  I  did  pretty 
well" 

"Yes,  until  it  came  to  the  part  that  mattered." 

"How  did  it  matter?"  She  ought  not  to  have 
said  that,  she  felt,  and  grew  nervous. 

"Don't  you  think  I  want  to  know?" 

"Then,  ask  her —  No,  don't  ask  her." 


246  The  Caravan  Man 

"Shan't  I?"  Bamfield  was  breathing  fast  now. 
Somehow  their  hands  were  joined  again,  but  it 
was  hers  in  his  this  time. 

"No."  She  stood  up  — so  did  Bamfield.1  "Oh, 
don't!"  She  got  her  hand  free  and  moved  away,  a 
little  nervous.  "What  a  lovely  night  it  is!"  She 
turned  to  him.  "Listen,"  she  said,  holding  up  her 
hand.  "What  is  it  in  the  air  to-night?  This 
is  enchantment.  Hark  —  to  the  music  —  don't 
you  hear?"  Her  face  was  rapt,  startled. 

"I  hear,"  said  Bamfield  gravely. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "to  dance,  to  music,  here  — 
now — " 

"Dance,"  said  Bamfield.  "Go  on." 

She  put  her  hand  to  her  heart.  "If  I  dared  —  " 
She  was  strangely  moved,  panting. 

"You  do  dance,  don't  you?  You  can?"  Some 
thing  about  her  as  she  stood  there  in  the  shadows, 
her  white  dress  gleaming,  seemed  to  assure  him  of 
that. 

She  answered  him,  quick-breathing,  eager.  "Mr. 
Jones,  I  can  dance.  My  mother  was  a  dancer. 
She  ran  away  from  here  to  be  a  dancer.  Father 
told  me  she  was  the  most  wonderful  thing.  Dan 
cing  was  born  in  me.  I  love  it.  I  used  to  dance  to 
my  father  in  the  old  studio  when  I  was  a  little  girl. 
He  loved  to  watch  me.  But  when  he  died  and 
they  brought  me  here  they  told  me  I  must  n't 
do  it." 


The  Caravan  Man  247 

Bamfield  had  stooped  and  picked  up  his  con 
certina  from  the  grass.  He  slipped  his  hands  into 
the  end-straps,  got  his  fingers  on  the  keys,  urged 
the  bellows.  Grotesque,  harsh,  yet  in  their  bizar- 
rerie  somehow  in  key  with  the  gaunt  light  from  the 
fire,  the  harsh,  uncompromising  shadows  that 
shut  them  in,  a  chord  or  two  moved  quietly  about 
them.  "Dance,"  he  said. 

"I  must  n't,"  she  said  reluctantly.  "But,  oh,  I 
want  to.  Sometimes  my  heart  aches  to  dance. 
I  have  n't  danced  for  seven  years  now." 

He  knew  by  now  something  at  least  of  his  in 
fluence  over  her.  He  used  it. 

"Dance,"  he  said  compellingly:  "just  a  little  — 
to  show  me.  Go  on  —  no  one  will  know.  Listen." 

The  vagrant  chords  began  to  move  in  rhythm, 
the  tune  took  shape,  catchy,  lilting,  not  loud,  but 
alluring.  She  felt  the  melody  embracing  her,  catch 
ing  at  her  feet.  She  began  to  sway,  her  feet  almost 
against  her  will  began  a  figuring  on  the  short  crisp 
turf,  the  power  of  the  rhythm  and  the  melody 
took  her  and  she  danced. 

He  gave  her  room  as  her  light  body  swung  and 
swept  across  the  grass  under  the  trees.  The  fire 
leapt  up  to  watch,  as,  her  hesitation  vanishing  in 
the  pleasure  of  the  ordered  movement,  her  deft 
feet  took  her  balancing  body  to  and  fro.  Nothing 
impetuous,  nothing  of  exertion,  but  in  the  easy 
occasional  lift  of  hands  and  arms,  swaying  of  torso, 


248  The  Caravan  Man 

bending  of  waist,  turn  of  head,  she  exhibited  a 
thousand  moving  graces.  Her  thin  dress  flowed 
about  her  like  water,  rippling,  swirling,  floating 
and  in  the  multitudinous  play  of  its  folds  the 
ceaselessly  changing  loveliness  of  her  light  limbs, 
now  almost  lost,  now  flashing  out  in  firm  outline, 
offered  acceptance  and  accentuation  to  the  rhythm 
of  the  music. 

To  Bamfield  the  dance  itself  meant  little,  but 
within  his  breast  that  exultation  in  beauty  which 
lay  at  the  basis  of  his  five  senses  began  to  burn  like 
a  fire.  She  was  exquisite.  It  was  beauty  itself 
that  fluttered  shadowily  before  him,  moving  with 
utter  spontaneity,  yet  observant  of  the  time  his 
fingers  measured  out.  .  .  .  She  was  tiring,  her 
breath  coming  fast.  He  wound  up  with  a  bar  or  two 
of  finale,  and  she  stopped.  Unsteady,  breathless, 
she  swayed  near  him,  and  put  out  her  hand  to  bal 
ance  herself.  It  caught  his  arm  and  rested  there 
for  a  second. 

At  that  touch  he  suddenly  lost  all  control.  He 
caught  her  to  him,  slid  his  arm  round  her  shoul 
ders,  drew  her  back  a  little,  and  as  her  face  lifted 
in  question,  he  kissed  her. 

For  a  second  she  submitted,  unresisting,  her  lips, 
half  parted  a  little,  turned  up  to  his,  her  hands 
raised  in  what  was  as  much  acquiescence  as  as 
tonishment;  then  he  felt  her  body  tighten,  and 
she  pushed  him  away  and  stepped  from  him. 


The  Caravan  Man  249 

"That  was  n't  fair,"  she  panted.  "You  were  n't 
fair.  I  did  n't  know  where  I  was." 

The  man  of  thirty-three  was  himself  again,  after 
that  one  instant  of  abandonment.  He  put  the 
concertina  down  and  frowned  gloomily.  "No,"  he 
said  quietly;  "it  was  n't  fair.  I'm  ashamed.  I  ask 
your  pardon." 

She  looked  at  him  rather  pitifully,  and  opened 
her  lips  as  if  to  speak,  but  remained  silent. 

He  came  over  to  her.  "I  had  to  do  it  —  you 
were  so  lovely,  dancing." 

She  shrank  away.  He  leaned  toward  her,  put 
ting  himself  in  bonds  and  at  the  same  instant 
straining  to  break  them.  "  You  need  n't  fear  me. 
You  're  beautiful,  are  n't  you  ?  Yes,  yes,  don't  pre 
tend,"  as  she  glanced  at  him  for  a  second  with  a 
deprecating  gesture.  "Every  beautiful  woman 
knows  she's  beautiful.  You've  looked  in  your 
glass  a  thousand  times  and  known  yourself  lovely. 
But  you  don't  know  how  beautiful  you  are.  You 
can't.  But  I  know.  I  know  what  beauty  is  in  a 
woman.  If  you  want  to  know  how  lovely  you  are 
—  not  in  words,  but  if  I  could  paint  you  —  then 
you  'd  know." 

She  was  rosy-faced  now.  "And  that  was  all?" 
she  asked.  "That  was  just  why  you  kissed  me? " 

"What  else?"  he  answered. 

"I  thought  —  perhaps  —  you  might  care  —  a 
little." 


250  The  Caravan  Man 

Bamfield  took  a  second  or  so  before  he  made 
reply.  Then  he  put  one  foot  on  the  big  root  by 
which  she  stood,  reluctant  to  stay,  unwilling  to 
go,  afraid  of  what  he  might  say,  anxious  to  hear 
him  speak.  He  looked  consideringly  up  at  her. 
Dimly  she  felt  that  somehow  the  moment  had 
gone.  Bamfield  spoke. 

"Care?  How  long  have  I  known  you?  A  week? 
Can  a  man  learn  really  to  care  for  a  woman  in  that 
time?  I  mean,  in  the  way  that  matters.  I'd  like 
to  answer  you,  but  I  must  give  you  nothing  but 
the  truth,  and  I  hardly  know.  If  I  were  ten  years 
younger,  I  'd  tell  you,  yes,  I  love  you  for  yourself. 
But  I  'm  doubtful  of  myself  because  I  know  how 
beauty  like  yours  gets  hold  of  me  and  confuses  me." 

She  was  chilled,  and  yet  in  his  speech,  stumbling 
and  halting  in  its  delivery,  she  felt  the  sincerity 
of  his  feelings,  confused  as  they  were. 

"You  might  try  to  think  how  your  answer  hu 
miliates  me."  She  had  to  make  that  much  of  pro 
test. 

Bamfield  was  a  little  more  himself.  "You're 
hurt,"  he  said  rapidly.  "Don't  be.  Seeing  you 
here,  in  this  light,  I  'm  carried  away  by  feelings  I 
can't  sort  out.  Let  me  see  you  again,  often,  till 
all  sense  of  your  mere  beauty  goes  and  all  I  know 
is  you.  When  I  have  forgotten  whether  you  are 
beautiful  or  not,  I  shall  know  whether  what 's  in 
my  heart  is  truly  love  or  not." 


The  Caravan  Man  251 

Poor  Rose !  She  told  herself  that  he  was  apolo 
gizing  very  properly  for  his  unpardonable  rude 
ness,  and  yet  —  how  sadly  it  was  ending! 

"Let  me  go,"  she  said.  You  will  note  that  he 
was  not  detaining  her  in  anyway;  her  hands  were 
free —  his  on  his  hips,  yet  she  said,  "Let  me  go." 

At  that  he  took  her  hand  again.  "I  think  so 
much  of  you  that  I  dare  n't  risk  a  mistake.  I  '11 
tell  you  this  much  — no  other  woman  on  earth 
claims  that  much "  —  he  snapped  his  fingers  — 
"of  me.  There's  no  other  woman  I'd  turn  my 
head  to  look  at.  I  swear  that."  He  looked  ear 
nestly  up  at  her  face,  and  the  frown  of  his  gaze 
compelled  her  for  an  instant  to  look  into  his  eyes. 
"You  believe  me,  don't  you?" 

All  she  could  say  was,  again, "  Let  me  go,  please ! " 
In  her  heaving  breast  her  heart  told  her,  "  It's  true 
—  it's  true.  There's  no  other  woman." 

"I  don't  think  I  shall  let  you  go,"  he  told  her. 
"I  think  I  shall  keep  you.  You  think  I've  be 
haved  unpardonably,  and  yet,  if  only  I  could  keep 
you  here,  perhaps  the  words  would  come  to  me  to 
show  you  how  easily  you  might  forgive  me."  She 
felt  the  genuineness  of  his  words,  and  a  fresh  flood 
of  content  swept  through  her.  "Won't  you  stay?" 
she  heard  him  go  on  —  and  then,  in  the  queerest 
fashion,  a  change,  startlingly  abrupt,  came  into 
his  voice.  "Oh,  I  forgot  —  no  —  of  course  I  must 
n't  keep  you.  I'll  see  you  to  the  Priory." 


252  The  Caravan  Man 

At  that  change  she  froze.  "  Pray  don't  trouble." 

"Of  course  I  shall,"  said  Bamfield,  politely  in 
sistent. 

She  was  ice.  "  I  'd  rather  you  did  n't.  I  prefer 
to  go  home  by  myself.  It  is  n't  three  minutes.  I 
mean  it.  Good-night."  She  was  off. 

"Oh,  I  say— " 

"Good-night."  She  was  inexorable. 

"What  about  the  picture  ?  I  meant  it  for  you — " 

She  permitted  herself  one  flash  of  open  resent 
ment.  "Keep  your  picture,"  she  tossed  him  over 
her  shoulder  —  and  was  gone.  Her  face  was  burn 
ing.  She  tingled  with  shame  from  head  to  foot. 
Thank  God,  she  was  too  angry  to  let  the  tears 
come  but  — oh,  it  was  intolerable!  —  he  had 
kissed  her,  and  then  dismissed  her. 

Bamfield  was  sick  at  heart.  He  could  not  know 
that  she  was  hurt,  but  her  anger  was  evident.  And 
yet  what  could  he  do?  As  he  had  held  her  hand, 
detaining  her  under  the  impulse  of  a  fresh  insur- 
gence  of  tenderness,  his  eye  had  fallen  on  his 
wrist  watch  and  he  had  noted  the  time  —  nearly 
half-past  nine.  It  was  not  that  he  had  promised 
Rose  should  be  home  by  nine — -those  promises, 
thank  God,  lovers  make  only  to  break  inevitably 
—  but  the  girl  from  the  post-office  was  to  be  here 
at  half-past  nine,  and  with  the  touch  of  Rose's  lips 
still  on  his,  he  could  not  bear  the  idea  of  the  two 
girls  meeting. 


The  Caravan  Man  253 

And  now  —  Rose  was  gone,  head  up,  her  "  Keep 
your  picture"  flung  contemptuously  at  him  as  she 
went.  He  stood  dejected,  the  despised  picture 
hanging  loose  in  his  grasp,  a  great  melancholy 
possessing  him.  Rose's  figure  faintly  seen  in  its 
white  dress  glimmered  away  into  the  shadows. 

"Let  me  have  the  picture,"  remarked  a  voice 
in  his  ear,  so  very  close  that  he  jumped. 

A  hand  reached  out  from  behind  him,  took  the 
picture  from  his  hand — he  wheeled  round  abruptly. 

There,  holding  the  picture  with  both  hands,  smil 
ing  a  deprecating  smile,  stood  a  gentleman  of  most 
evidently  Oriental  extraction:  a  neat  little  man, 
with  a  very  large  nose  dominating  his  clean-shaven 
face,  and  a  dapper  dress,  which  engaged  your 
attention  the  instant  you  looked  at  him,  because 
its  very  correctness,  its  black  morning  coat,  fawn 
waistcoat  with  a  white  slip  at  the  neck  opening, 
shepherd's-plaid  trousers,  boots  with  white  gaiter- 
tops  and  pearl  buttons,  Trilby  hat  to  match  the 
waistcoat  in  hue,  made  him  seem  so  absurdly  in 
congruous  in  that  place,  where  but  a  few  minutes 
before  Rose,  like  a  creature  of  the  woods,  had 
danced.  At  sight  of  him  a  passion  of  wrath  sud 
denly  flamed  up  in  Bamfield's  countenance.  He 
took  one  furious  stride  towards  the  intruder,  who 
immediately  skipped  nimbly  backwards,  still  fac 
ing  him,  his  face,  his  whole  attitude  invested  with 
an  air  of  deprecating  friendliness. 


254  The  Caravan  Man 

"Iffelstein!"  burst  from  Bamfield.  "And  where 
have  you  come  from  ?  Have  you  been  here  long  ? " 
He  took  another  hasty  step  forward,  and  again 
his  visitor  skipped  nimbly  away  from  him. 

"Good-evening,  Mr.  Bamfield,"  he  replied. 
"Only  half  an  hour  or  so.  I  did  n't  want  to  in 
trude,  so  I  waited  behind  the  tree"  —  he  waved 
the  picture  at  the  tree  under  which  the  vagabond 
supper  had  taken  place  —  "  till  the  young  lady 
went.  You  won't  mind  me,  Mr.  Bamfield?"  — 
Bamfield,  hands  gripped,  moved  dreadfully  to 
wards  him.  He  moved  away  in  response,  always 
keeping  out  of  arm's  length,  always  keeping  his 
front  elevation  opposed  to  Bamfield's  face  —  or 
shall  we  say,  his  rear  elevation  guarded  from  Bam 
field's  foot?  At  the  same  time  he  spoke  rapidly. 
"I  want  this  picture —  Oh,  do  wait  a  minute.  I 
want  a  lot  of  pictures;  I  want  all  your  pictures. 
Come,  Mr.  Bamfield,"  he  continued  persuasively, 

—  here,  as  he  backed,  his  heel  caught  in  a  finger 
of  the  tree-roots,  and  only  a  very  dextrous  back 
ward  spring  kept    him    from    sprawling  on  his 
back.    "Come  —  I'm  your  old  friend.    I'll  give 
you  fifty  for  this,  and  fifty  each  for  as  many  more 
as  you  can  let  me  have." 

Bamfield  edged  him  up  to  the  fire,  leapt  at  him 

—  he  was  over  the  fire  like  a  flash,  but  the  pic 
ture  was  in  Bamfield's  hands.  He  put  it  down  on 
the  ground  against  the  tree-trunk,  and  began  to 


The  Caravan  Man  255 

stride  more  swiftly  than  ever  after  Mr.  Iffelstein, 
who,  however,  continued  to  gyrate  in  front  of  him 
and  just  out  of  his  reach. 

"You  take  me  for  Bamfield  the  artist,  don't 
you?" 

"Why,  Mr.  Bamfield,  of  course  you're  Barn- 
field  the  artist,  and  I  want —  " 

Bamfield  cut  him  short.  "Well,  I'm  not.  My 
name  is  Jones  —  understand?  Jones,  photog 
rapher." 

"Anything  you  like,  Mr.  Bamfield — Jones,  I 
mean  —  so  long  as  we  can  do  a  bit  of  business 
together." 

"Business,  you  blighter!"  Bamfield  had  fairly 
lost  his  temper.  To  his  resentment  at  this  man's 
intrusion  on  his  parting  with  Rose  was  now  piled 
the  long-pent-up  detestation  accumulated  through 
years  of  what  on  Iffelstein's  side  were  undoubt 
edly  "bits  of  business  together."  He  leapt  forward 
and  this  time  caught  his  man,  caught  him  by  the 
lapels  of  his  coat,  and  held  him  tight,  shaking  him 
vigorously  as  he  endeavoured  to  wriggle  away. 

"You  sucked  my  blood,"  hissed  Bamfield,  the 
painful  state  of  alarm  depicted  on  Mr.  Iffelstein's 
face  somehow  calling  him  to  an  essay  in  melodra- 
matics.  "You  vampire,  you  sweater  —  you  finish 
here!"  Mr.  Iffelstein,  with  a  desperate  effort, 
swung  himself  round,  without,  however,  loosening 
Bamfield's  grip  on  his  coat.  Bamfield  sensed  the 


256  The  Caravan  Man 

proximity  of  the  pond.  The  feet  of  the  two  men 
slipped  on  its  crumbling  edge.  He  pulled  Iffel- 
stein  towards  it,  despite  his  frantic  struggles. 
"I'll  drown  you.  In  you  go.  There's  forty  feet 
of  water  here!" 

"Oh,  don't  say  that,  Mr.  Bamfield!" 
"Well,  forty  inches,"  said  Bamfield.  "  Come  on ! " 
Mr.  Iffelstein  made  one  last  and  immense  effort 
to  save  himself,  but  the  memories  of  many  a  pic 
ture  sold  for  little  more  than  the  cost  of  studio 
rent  and  canvas  nerved  Bamfield's  arms.  The  two 
men  tottered  on  the  brink  of  the  pond,  just  above 
the  reed-bed.  They  swayed,  leant  over  towards 
the  black  water — one  savage  wrench,  and  Bam 
field  had  freed  himself  from  the  despairing  clutch 
and  with  a  mighty  flop  the  figure  of  Mr.  Iffelstein 
went  walloping  into  the  depths. 

A  cry,  most  dismal,  rent  the  air,  a  bubbling 
cry,  cut  short  by  a  dreadful  gurgle  as  the  pale  lips 
that  uttered  it  were  immersed  in  the  inky  flood. 
On  the  reed-edged  bank  the  caravan  man  stood 
exulting  and  merciless,  glaring  with  fiendish  mal 
ice  at  the  vague  shape  of  the  unhappy  wretch 
beneath;  then,  callous,  unpitying,  he  turned  and 
sped  away  to  where  he  still  hoped  to  catch  a  final 
glimpse,  perhaps  a  final  word  with  Rose,  on  her 
swift  homeward  way. 

Not  thirty  seconds  later  the  tall  figure  of  Miss 
Bertha  Babbage  entered  the  circle  of  the  Chinese 


The  Caravan  Man  257 

lantern's  influence.  She  wore  no  hat;  she  carried 
a  large  bag,  a  cross  between  a  Gladstone  and  a 
portmanteau;  and  a  long  evening  cloak  enveloped 
her.  As  usual,  she  was  smiling,  and  on  this  occa 
sion  panting  a  little.  She  had  been  hurrying;  her 
mass  of  fair  hair  was  a  little  disarranged,  and 
through  her  perfect  parted  lips  her  beautiful  teeth 
flashed.  She  hesitated,  looked  about  her,  put  her 
bag  down  on  the  steps  of  the  caravan,  and  ap 
proached  the  fire. 

She  started.  From  the  darkness  near  by  there 
came  a  piteous  moaning,  the  sound  as  of  a  crea 
ture  in  distress.  In  the  hollow  of  gloom,  where  the 
depths  of  the  pond  showed  faintly,  the  reeds  were 
agitated,  something  moved,  large,  indistinct,  dis 
tressed,  with  bubbles  and  gurgles  and  wet,  floppy 
gesticulations,  and  sounds  vaguely  shaping  them 
selves  into  incoherent  but  human  appeals  for  help. 

Bertha  Babbage  had  decision  in  her.  She  ran 
to  the  pond.  "Who  is  it ?  —  what  is  it?  —  are  you 
in  there  ? "  she  demanded. 

The  question  was  perhaps  a  little  tactless. 
There  was  a  pardonable  touch  of  fresh  resentment 
in  the  answer  that  reached  her.  "Of  course,  I'm 
in  here.  Where  else  do  you  think  I  am?  Help  me 
out!"  said  a  faint  voice. 

"You  can  get  out,  can't  you?  It  isn't  very 
deep  —  and  I  don't  want  to  spoil  my  dress,"  re 
sponded  Bertha. 


258  The  Caravan  Man 

Out  of  the  blackness,  and  through  the  reeds, 
the  struggling  thing  began  to  take  shape.  The 
flicker  of  the  fire  revealed  the  head  and  torso  of 
a  man,  shockingly  muddy  and  wet,  hair  plastered 
down,  coat  bulging  with  air-bubbles  imprisoned 
under  saturated  cloth.  It  tore  at  the  reeds,  and 
broke  off  handfuls,  but  Bertha's  presence  seemed 
to  inspire  it  to  effort.  It  persisted,  floppily.  With 
occasional  slips  back  it  gradually  heaved  itself 
upwards  onto  dry  ground,  on  hands  and  knees, 
and  crawled  towards  Bertha,  who,  clutching  her 
skirts  round  her,  retreated  from  it. 

"Who  are  you?"  she  demanded.  "And  what 
are  you  doing  here?  Did  somebody  push  you 
in?" 

The  thing  got  unsteadily  to  its  feet,  a  bitter 
spasm  of  ironic  humour  convulsing  its  muddied 
countenance.  "No,  I  just  went  in,  to  see  if  the 
water  was  wet."  It  grasped  its  unshapely  huddle 
of  garments  and  heaved  itself  convulsively.  From 
inside  and  outside  gouts  of  fluid  ejected  them 
selves  onto  the  grass.  Iffelstein's  wet  hands 
scooped  off  his  shoulders  some  of  the  green  mass 
of  duckweed  thickly  plastered  over  him.  From 
down  one  leg  of  his  trousers  something  snakelike 
and  gleaming  descended,  and  wriggled  itself  has 
tily  and  noiselessly  back  into  its  native  pond. 

"Well,"  said  Bertha,  "you  do  look  a  sight! 
Had  n't  you  better  get  off  and  have  a  bath?" 


The  Caravan  Man  259 

That  last  word  seemed  to  strike  home.  Over  the 
face  of  the  wretched  object  before  her  a  spasm  of 
malice  swept.  "A  bath!"  it  said,  vitriol  in  every 
word.  "Have  a  ba  —  Oh,  don't  be  a  silly  fool!  — 
what  have  I  just  had?" 

It  stooped,  snatched  up  from  the  ground  its 
hat,  which  had  fortunately  tumbled  off  before  its 
owner  entered  the  pond,  and  was  therefore  the 
one  dry  item  of  clothing  available,  clapped  it  in 
dignantly  on  its  head,  gave  a  final  hitch  to  its 
coat-collar,  a  heave  and  wrench  to  its  trousers,  and 
Mr.  Iffelstein,  invested  with  something  of  the  dig 
nity  which  overwhelming  misfortune  can  lend  to 
a  sufferer,  stalked  away  into  the  darkness. 

Bertha  felt  on  the  whole  relieved  at  the  gentle 
man's  exit.  She  went  over  to  the  fire  again. 

As  she  looked  at  the  evidences  of  the  simple  sup 
per,  her  lips  widened  to  an  amiable  grin,  her  eyes 
sparkled.  She  glanced  over  the  plates,  the  glasses. 
Something  caught  her  eye  near  the  tree-root.  She 
stooped,  picked  it  up,  looked  at  it,  gave  a  knowing 
and  pleasant  little  chuckle,  and  hid  it,  whatever 
it  was,  under  her  cloak.  She  was  still  smiling  when 
Bamfield  returned. 

"Hullo!"  he  said.  "You're  here.  Hope  I  have 
n't  kept  you  waiting." 

"I'm  a  bit  late  myself,"  said  Bertha.  "I  found 
a  horrible  man  in  the  pond  — " 

"I  know  about  him,"  said  Bamfield. 


260  The  Caravan  Man 

Bertha  raised  her  eyebrows.  "Did  you  push 
him  in?"  she  asked. 

"Yes." 

"Whatever  for?" 

"He  annoyed  me,"  answered  Bamfield,  with  a 
touch  of  impatience;  "but  it  does  n't  matter  now." 

"Good  gracious!"  ejaculated  Bertha.  She 
looked  Bamfield  over  a  trifle  doubtfully.  "I  hope 
I  shan't  annoy  you." 

"I  hope  so  too  ...  All  alone?" 

"Yes.  My  friend  could  n't  come.  But  I  don't 
mind,  if  you  don't.  Isn't  the  fire  jolly?  You've 
been  having  a  good  time,  I  should  think,"  she  went 
on,  looking  slyly  at  him.  "  I  did  n't  think  you 
went  in  for  that  sort  of  thing." 

"  Oh,  a  friend,  you  know,"  returned  Bamfield 
awkwardly.  Inwardly  he  anathematized  Bertha. 
If  only  she  had  n't  been  coming  —  or  if  only  he 
had  cleared  things  away  — 

'  You  did  n't  say  anything  about  my  coming, 
did  you  ?  "  inquired  Bertha  anxiously. 

"No,  no,"  Bamfield  assured  her.  "I  did  n't  tell 
him  anything — and — and  of  course  he's  gone  now." 

Bertha  surveyed  him  gravely.  "Well,  that's  all 
right.  I  knew  you  would  n't  give  me  away.  But  if 
your  friend  should  ask  you  to-morrow  if  he'd  left 
his  hatpin  here,  you  can  give  it  to  him."  She 
handed  it  to  Bamfield,  a  broad  smile  on  her  hand 
some  face.  "I  just  picked  it  up,"  she  explained. 


The  Caravan  Man  261 

"Oh,  thanks/*  Bamfield  almost  blushed. 

Bertha  chuckled.  "I  say,  what  a  lark!  Who  was 
it?  Any  one  I  know?" 

"No,"  very  short,  from  Bamfield. 

"I'm  curious." 

Bamfield  pulled  himself  together  and  took  mat 
ters  in  hand.  He  was  n't  going  to  be  made  to 
blush  like  a  schoolboy  in  a  position  of  this  kind. 

"  I  'm  curious,  too,"  he  answered,  looking  at  her 
very  straight,  "  as  to  what  sort  of  -a  photograph 
two  clever  people  like  you  and  me  can  turn  out  be 
tween  us  —  providing  we  don't  trouble  our  heads 
about  anything  else." 

That  was  plain  enough.  Bertha  took  it  with 
easy  grace. 

"All  right.  Not  another  word." 

"Let's  make  a  start,"  said  Bamfield,  piling  the 
plates  together.  He  took  a  handful  of  things  to 
ward  the  caravan,  and  there  stopped.  "What's 
this?"  He  indicated  the  bag. 

"That's  my  bag,"  explained  Bertha.  "It's  got 
the  dress  in  it." 

"The  dress!  What?  Have  n't  you  got  it  on?  I 
thought  you  were  going  to  change  before  you 
came." 

"  So  I  was,  but  my  friend  did  n't  come  till  nearly 
a  quarter  past  nine,  and  I  waited  and  waited,  and 
I  was  so  vexed  —  I  thought  she  was  n't  coming  at 
all.  But  at  last  she  came,  and  I  just  snatched  the 


262  The  Caravan  Man 

bag  and  ran.  I  did  n't  know  whether  you  'd  go  off 
somewhere  or  go  to  bed  if  I  did  n't  turn  up  to 
time." 

"Well,  it's  all  right."  Bamfield  reflected  a  bit. 
It  was  all  right,  of  course,  only  there  was  just  the 
possibility  of  awkwardness  in  the  position  of 
affairs.  "You  can  pop  into  my  caravan  and 
change.  It  is  n't  quite  dressed  for  company,  but 
you  won't  mind." 

"It's  awfully  good  of  you.  You  must  think  me 
a  nuisance." 

"Not  a  bit,"  returned  Bamfield  in  great  good- 
humour.  "We're  fighting  for  a  great  principle, 
you  and  I." 

"Are  we?" 

"Yes.  The  grim  and  silent  struggle  has  been 
raging  down  the  ages  between  the  girl  who  knows 
what's  due  to  her  self-respect  and  the  —  the  fast 
thing  that  goes  —  goes"  —  he  waved  a  hand  in  a 
gesture  broadly  indicative  of  fastness  in  things  — 
"flaunting  about  in  tights.  Victory  inclines  now 
to  one  side,  now  to  the  other,  and  who  can  say  — 
oh,  who  —  what  the  end  will  be?  But  we,  who 
champion  the  right,  are  we  downhearted  ? " 

"No!"  interjected  Bertha  loudly. 

"No!"  repeated  Bamfield.  "Most  certainly 
not.  We  bag  just  the  right  kind  of  frock,  the  frock 
that  goes  just  so  far  and  no  farther — " 

Bertha  broke  in  a  trifle  anxiously:  "Well,  really, 


The  Caravan  Man  263 

I'm  almost  afraid  this  frock  is  just  a  little  —  a 
little,  you  know  —  you  won't  mind?  And,  of 
course,  I  could  pin  it  over  a  little  if  you  thought 


it  too — " 


"We'll  see  when  it's  on,"  said  Bamfield.  "Be 
sides,  with  so  much  at  stake,  some  latitude  must 
be  allowed.  Now,  let  me  put  some  of  these  things 
away  and  then  you  can  go  in."  With  Bertha's  help 
in  collecting,  he  cleared  away  the  traces  of  the 
supper  and  stowed  them  in  the  caravan  and 
brought  out  his  stand  camera  and  some  slides. 
"Now,  young  lady — " 

Bertha  took  off  the  cloak  and  pitched  it  onto 
the  steps.  She  did  not  notice  that  it  slipped  down 
into  the  darkness  beside  them.  Under  it  she  wore 
her  ordinary  business  attire.  She  went  into  the 
caravan,  pulled  the  door  to,  and  busied  herself 
with  changing.  Bamfield  arranged  his  camera, 
measured  the  paces  between  it  and  the  caravan 
steps,  the  tree,  the  reeds  by  the  pond,  to  assist  him 
in  focusing,  and  then,  lighting  a  cigarette,  waited 
patiently  for  Bertha  to  emerge  in  her  finery.  The 
caravan  door  opened.  He  looked  up. 

At  the  top  of  the  steps,  radiant,  smiling,  stood 
Bertha,  and  the  image  that  leapt  to  the  mind  was 
that  of  a  young  lady  hastily  summoned  from  bed 
by  a  cry  of,  say,  "Fire!"  She  had  the  dress  on  — 
as  far,  or  nearly  as  far,  as  it  could  be  said  to  be  on. 
It  ascended  from  her  feet  to  somewhere  in  the 


264  The  Caravan  Man 

region  of  her  bosom,  and  there  it  abruptly  termi 
nated.  Not  even  a  shoulder-strap  was  conceded. 
Since  the  ladies  of  the  court  of  our  great  Charles 
the  Second  sat  for  those  immortal  paintings  by 
Lely  I  doubt  if  anything  more  frankly  confidential 
in  the  way  of  a  frock  has  ever  been  worn  by  a 
woman  of  unblemished  reputation.  "  Confidential " 
is  indeed  the  word;  it  suggests  unbosoming  and 
this  appeared  to  be  the  frock's  chief  function, 
though  on  closer  inspection  it  could  be  seen  that  a 
half-contemptuous  deference  to  convention  was 
flung  at  the  last  second,  as  it  were,  to  silence  the 
critical.  In  fact,  in  its  upper  part  it  was  not  so 
much  a  dress  as  a  barely  sufficient  opportunity  for 
its  wearer  to  contend  that  she  was  dressed.  The 
point  became  arguable  —  just. 

For  the  rest,  the  dress  was  white,  intensely  well- 
cut,  close-fitting  —  and  sufficient.  As  far  as  it 
went,  it  fitted  Bertha;  it  clothed  her  magnificence 
of  shape  and  at  the  same  time  called  attention  to 
it,  with  a  cunning  that  was  appalling.  And  above 
this  frock,  above  the  line  of  contention,  Bertha's 
face,  smiling,  flushed,  almost,  for  once,  embar 
rassed,  looked  down  appealingly  at  Bamfield  as 
she  confessed  to  a  difficulty  —  a  difficulty  already 
suggested  by  the  fact  that  she  was  holding  the 
dress  about  her  with  both  hands. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Jones,  excuse  me,  but  I  quite  forgot 
one  thing.  Will  you  hook  me  up  at  the  back?" 


The  Caravan  Man  265 

"With  pleasure,"  answered  Bamfield,  tossing 
his  cigarette  away.  "Come  down." 

"  But  I  want  my  shoes  on  first.  Will  you  —  do 
you  mind — "  She  held  a  pair  of  black  shoes, 
high-heeled,  out  toward  him. 

Bamfield  took  them  and  stood  beside  the  steps 
to  put  them  on.  She  boldly  drew  her  skirt  aside 
and  up,  out  of  his  way.  Her  ankles,  and  more, 
thus  revealed,  were  as  perfect  as  the  rest  of  her. 
He  put  her  shoes  on,  holding  each  foot  in  turn, 
and  helping  her  to  wriggle  her  heels  in. 

"Shoes  and  all?"  he  said. 

"Yes  —  and  corsets  as  well.  The  whole  kit. 
That's  why  I  can't  stoop,"  she  went  on  with 
enthusiasm.  "It's  just  lovely  to  have  a  dress  like 
this  on,  complete,  stockings  and  shoes  as  well. 
You  don't  know  how  lovely  it  feels  to  have  lovely 
things  on,  all  the  way,  you  know.  I  shan't  ever 
have  one  on  like  it  again  —  and  it  fits  me.  Really, 
you  'd  think  it  was  made  for  me." 

Bamfield  finished  the  operation  of  getting  the 
shoes  on,  and  stepped  back.  Her  skirts  drooped 
decorously. 

"There  you  are.  Now  what  about  the  hooks?" 

"If  you  would  —  "  said  Bertha,  coming  down 
the  steps,  still  holding  her  meagre  defence  about 
her  with  both  hands. 

Bamfield,  at  the  back  of  her,  began  to  search 
for  the  little  hooks  and  eyes,  his  gaze  almost  as 


266  The  Caravan  Man 

much  taken  up  with  the  marvellous  skin  of  her 
shapely  shoulders.  It  was  no  easy  job,  but  he 
managed  it,  while  Bertha  talked  away  her  own 
embarrassment. 

"It's  awfully  kind  of  you.  What  you  must 
think  of  me  I  don't  know.  But  you  look  so  kind  — 
and  I  thought,  if  I  told  you  what  it  was  for — " 

Bamfield  finished  the  task  —  pleasant  enough, 
he  thought  —  and  turned  her  round  to  survey  her. 

"Don't  you  worry  about  that.  I 'm  on  your  side. 
Virtue  for  ever  —  even  if  it  wants  to  wear  a  dress" 
—  he  paused  and  looked  her  over — "that's  a 
little,  just  a  little — " 

Bertha  caught  at  once  the  suggestion  of  reproof. 
"Do  you  think  so?"  anxiously,  her  hands  on  her 
bosom.  , 

"No,  it's  all  right.  Don't  touch  it!  Stand  over 
here  and  wait  while  I  look  at  you."  He  put  her  by 
the  tree  and,  stepping  back,  looked  her  over 
gravely. 

He  took  his  time.  She  was  worth  looking  at. 
Never  in  all  his  experience  while  painting  figure 
had  he  encountered  such  an  embodiment  of  all  that 
pertains  to  feminine  beauty  so  richly,  lavishly 
compiled  as  here  in  this  girl.  Arresting  at  all  times, 
her  beauty  in  this  daring  frock  compelled  atten 
tion.  Her  wonderful  neck,  large,  white,  matchless 
in  shape;  the  gracious  shoulders,  sweeping  superbly 
to  her  long  arms;  the  twin  triumphs  of  her  bosom, 


IT'S  AWFULLY  KIND  OF  YOU' 


The  Caravan  Man  267 

firm,  white,  wide  apart;  the  majestic  lines  of  hip 
and  thigh;  the  poise,  careless,  strong,  inevitably 
graceful ;  the  handsome  face,  glowing,  happy,  with 
large,  brightly  flashing  eyes  —  only  the  nose  per 
haps  a  little  less  queenly  than  one  could  wish  for; 
and  the  great  plaited  wreath  of  hair  massed  on  her 
brow  —  all  the  artist  in  Bamfield  exulted  as  he 
looked.  v 

"What's  landscape,  after  all?"  he  thought. 
"Jove!  I'll  get  back  to  Primrose  Hill  and  paint 
figure  again!  This  girl — " 

Bertha  watched  him  closely,  feeling  instinctively 
that  a  criticism  far  keener  than  the  ordinary  had 
her  in  scrutiny. 

"Will  I  do?"  she  challenged. 

Back  came  Bamfield  from  his  musings.  "I 
should  think  so!  I  tell  you  what,  we're  going  to 
make  a  great  success  of  this." 

"Are  we?"  laughed  Bertha,  delighted. 

"Great.  That  poor  lunatic  that  lost  you  will  be 
looking  six  ways  for  Sunday  when  he  sees  the 
photograph  we're  going  to  turn  out  between  us."' 

She  beamed.  What  wit,  she  felt. 

"You  do  go  on!"  she  murmured. 

"Now,"  said  Bamfield,  the  artist  and  the  busi 
ness  man  alert  in  him,  "  stand  here.  You  'd  like  a 
full-length,  of  course.  Turn  sideways."  She  turned 
obediently.  Figure  and  face,  Bamfield  noted,  were 
just  as  fine  in  profile.  "You  look  fine  like  that. 


268  The  Caravan  Man 

Now,  turn  your  head  over  your  shoulder.  Look  at 
me  —  more  —  chin  up.  Good!  Let  me  try  to 
focus.  It's  difficult  in  this  light.  I'll  pace  it." 

He  paced  the  yards,  adjusted  the  rack  of  his 
camera,  peered  into  the  ground-glass  of  the 
focusing-screen. 

"It's  impossible  to  focus  in  this  light,"  he  had  to 
explain.  "  I  can  barely  see  you  on  the  screen.  I  '11 
have  to  guess  at  it,  more  or  less.  Still,  twelve  feet, 
I  think,  is  pretty  right." 

He  made  ready  the  tiny  apparatus  with  its 
powder  for  flash-lighting,  and  got  Bertha  posed 
again. 

"As  you  were  just  now  —  not  so  high.  Your 
chin — more  like  that.  That's  it!  Hand  so."  He 
adjusted  her  hand  on  her  hip.  "Look  dignified. 
No,  don't  smile  —  more  like  an  offended  queen. 
Now,  now,  you're  laughing!  Mind,  I'm  waiting. 
Steady —  steady!" 

Whiff!  The  flashlight  blazed  and  was  gone. 

"My  goodness!"  said  Bertha,  relaxing.  "Is  it 
all  right?" 

"Fine,"  Bamfield  assured  her.  "Now  we'll  have 
another." 

Bertha  had  to  settle  something.  They  were  get 
ting  on  splendidly,  but  the  instinctive  defences  of 
a  woman  were  at  work  and  urged  her  to  prudence. 
Those  who,  aware  of  man's  unscrupulousness  and 
cogitating  on  the  wayward  venturesomeness  of 


The  Caravan  Man  269 

girls,  marvel  how  any  of  them  come  safely  through 
those  perilous  years  that  lie  between  eighteen  and 
three-and-twenty,  should  recognize  that  circulat 
ing  through  the  feminine  mental  make-up  are  cer 
tain  vague  but  insistent  wisdoms  that,  asleep 
though  they  seem,  can  rouse  into  instant  action 
like  faithful  watch-dogs.  One  of  these  stirred 
gently  even  in  Bertha  Babbage's  confident  bosom. 
If  it  were  worded,  it  would  probably  have  run, 
"Don't  owe  money  to  a  man."  Nothing  more 
personal  than  that,  vague,  unpointed,  but  a  dim 
counsellor  not  to  be  despised. 

"I  say,"  said  Bertha,  "I  ought  to  know  what 
it's  going  to  cost." 

"Are  you  very  anxious  about  the  price ?"  re 
joined  Bamfield,  as  he  took  out  the  double  dark- 
slide  and  turned  it. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "I  know  I  shall  have  to  pay 
you  a  bit  extra,  making  you  work  overtime  like 
this—" 

"Quite  right,"  he  assured  her,  "in  the  ordinary 
way,  but  this  is  n't  a  bit  of  trade.  It's  my  bit  to 
wards  —  towards  winning  the  struggle.  I  like  your 
pluck." 

"Oh!"  she  interjected,  not  unpleased,  for  the 
several  shillings,  at  least,  which  she  knew  this 
ought  to  cost  were  no  negligible  matter,  while  his 
offering  to  waive  the  charge  was,  she  knew,  a 
tribute  to  herself.  "Oh,  but  I  could  n't  think — " 


270  The  Caravan  Man 

"You  shall  pay  me,"  he  reassured  her.  "You 
shall  sit  for  me.  I  '11  take  a  photograph  of  you  spe 
cially  for  myself —  that's  all.  You  won't  mind?" 

"It's  awfully  good  of  you,  but —  I  know  I  am 
worth  photoing,  are  n't  I?" 

It  was  impossible  to  help  laughing.  She  was  as 
ingenuous  as  a  child  displaying  its  new  sash  or  its 
first  attempt  to  write. 

"You  are,"  Bamfield  laughed.  "Now,  what  do 
you  say  if  we  have  you  with  your  foot  on  the 
caravan  step?" 

He  led  her  over.  She  posed  as  he  directed  and 
again  the  artist  in  him  exulted  to  see  the  fine  and 
massive  frame  displayed  in  a  fresh  arrangement  of 
grace  and  strength. 

"Draw  your  dress  round  you." 

She  gathered  her  skirt  in  one  hand  and  drew  it 
behind  her.  Then  she  glanced  down  at  herself. 

"I  say,"  she  hesitated,  "I  must  look  a  bit  —  a 
bit  —  shapy,  don't  I?" 

"Yes,"  said  Bamfield  bluntly.  "Don't  you 
want  to?" 

She  was  as  blunt  as  he.  "Yes,  I  do.  I'll  show 
her  —  pooh !  Her  and  her  tights !  I  've  got  a  figure, 
have  n't  I  ?  And  I  know  it  shows  in  this  dress, 
especially  if  I  hold  it  round  me  like  this.  You 
know,"  she  went  on,  dropping  her  voice  to  the 
proper  confidential  level,  "you  know,  I've  got 
positively  nothing  on  underneath." 


The  Caravan  Man  271 

"There's  not  much  to  write  home  about  on  top, 
is  there?"  returned  Bamfield  amusedly. 

"  I  know,"  she  confessed,  with  another  downward 
glance.  "  But  if  Lady  Baddeley-Boulger  can  wear 
it,  why  can't  I?  Half  the  fashions  are  made  by 
frumps  for  frumps.  Why  should  n't  a  girl  be 
pleased  with  herself?" 

"Certainly,"  agreed  Bamfield.  "Don't  think 
you've  got  to  explain  to  me.  You're  splendid. 
You  've  length,  you  Ve  strength.  You  're  not  merely 
graceful.  Now,  still  —  as  you  are."  He  had  caught 
her  in  a  magnificent  pose.  "Ready!" 

Whiff!  again,  and  the  photograph  was  taken. 
He  took  nearly  a  dozen,  altogether.  The  girl  was 
full  of  intelligence,  full  of  unfeigned  appreciation 
of  herself  and  the  possibilities  of  picture-making 
she  presented.  She  assented  to  Bamfield's  authori 
tative  manner,  obeyed  him  implicitly,  offered  no 
suggestions,  carried  out  his  instructions,  and  Bam 
field,  luxuriating  in  the  excellence  of  his  subject, 
found  in  each  pose  a  pleasure  as  keen  as,  perhaps 
keener  than,  Bertha's. 

She  grew  tired,  and  he  stopped  to  let  her  rest  a 
minute  or  two. 

"Mind  you,"  he  warned  her,  as  she  sat  on  the 
caravan  steps,  lips  parted  in  a  smile,  teeth  flashing, 
"you're  a  very  fine  young  lady,  but  you've  got  to 
watch  one  thing." 

"I  know,"  she  answered.    "I  might  get  fat. 


272  The  Caravan  Man 

Girls  like  me  do  grow  fat  if  they're  not  careful. 
But  I  won't  if  I  can  help  it.  Still,  which  would  you 
rather  have  me  do  —  get  too  fat,  like  my  mother 
used  to  be,  or  be  like  some  girls,  like  a  shilling 
rabbit?" 

"Well,  don't  be  like  a  shilling  rabbit,"  chuckled 
Bamfield.  "I  should  n't  admire  you  half  so  much. 
Still,  watch  the  other  —  profunditundity,  voluptu- 
bubulositude,  I  might  even  say."  Bertha  grinned 
at  the  expressiveness  of  the  hastily-coined  words. 
"And  don't  tight-lace,  and  don't  pinch  your  toes. 
Those  shoes,  you  know  —  they're  too  pointy  at  the 
toe." 

"No,  really!"  she  protested. 

"Don't  tell  fibs,"  Bamfield  reproved  her  sternly. 
"They  are.  You  think  it  does  n't  matter,  but  it 
does.  A  foot's  a  wonderful  thing,  and  yet  most 
women  turn  them  into — well,  horrors.  Women 
don't  deserve  to  have  feet." 

"I  say,"  Bertha  replied  primly,  "you  know  a 
bit  too  much." 

"It's  my — it  used  to  be  my  trade,"  he  said. 
"Now,  let's  have  the  photo  I'm  to  have  for  my 
trouble."  He  surveyed  her  consideringly.  "Head 
and  shoulders,  I  think.  You've  a  splendid  neck." 

"Isn't  it  too  thick?"  asked  Bertha,  holding  it 
with  both  hands.  She  knew  it  was  n't. 

"No,  the  shape's  so  good.  Sit  here."  He  placed 
her  sitting  on  the  tree-root,  where  the  light  from 


The  Caravan  Man  273 

the  Chinese  lantern,  useless  for  photography,  gave 
him  an  opportunity  of  focusing  and  of  surveying 
her  image  on  the  camera  screen.  "You're  fine." 

She  luxuriated  in  the  praise.  "I  say,  you  do 
really  mean  that?  You're  not  just  kidding  me?" 

"Of  course  I'm  not.  Now,  sit  still."  He  took 
the  photograph.  "If  you  were  an  artist,  you'd 
know  what  a  pleasure  it's  been  to  have  you  posing 
here.  I  should  n't  talk  like  this  to  you  if  I  thought 
you  were  as  big  a  fool  as  most  girls,  but  I  believe 
you  Ve  got  your  head  screwed  on  the  right  way." 

His  frankness,  as  abrupt  and  unstudied  as  her 
own,  delighted  Bertha. 

"I  dare  say  I'm  clever  enough,"  she  admitted. 
"A  girl's  got  to  be,  nowadays."  She  moved  away 
and  back  again.  "I  can  walk,  can't  I?"  she  en 
quired,  still  requiring  praise. 

"You're  a  delight  to  watch,"  he  gave  her. 
"You've  the  knack  of  moving.  You  get  a  pose,  a 
paintable  pose,  every  time,  without  trying,  and 
all  your  lines  are  good.  You've  been  a  treat." 

She  felt  she  could  ask  no  more  from  him.  "It'll 
cost  money  soon  to  talk  to  me,"  she  chuckled. 

"Well,  now,"  said  Bamfield,  getting  his  dark- 
slides  together.  "I'll  knock  off.  What  shall  we 
do?  Would  you  like  a  cigarette?  Shall  I  make  you 
some  coffee  ?  Or  —  what  time  do  they  put  you  to 
by-bye?" 

"What's  the  time,  please?" 


274  The  Caravan  Man 

"Ten  past  ten." 

She  started.  "Goodness!  I  must  fly!'* 

"Run  in  and  change,  and  I'll  walk  home  with 
you." 

"If  you  don't  mind,"  she.  said,  "I  won't  stop  to 
change  now.  I  shall  just  run  back  with  my  things 
in  the  bag.  No  one  will  see  under  my  cloak.  Where 
is  my  cloak?"  She  looked  around.  "I  thought  I 
put  it  down — " 

"I  expect  it's  inside." 

"Oh,  yes!"  She  ran  up  the  steps  and  into  the 
caravan.  In  a  minute  she  called  out  to  him,  "I 
don't  see  my  cloak." 

Bamfield  approached  the  caravan,  carrying  all 
his  photographic  apparatus  under  his  arms. 

"It's  there,  all  right,"  he  answered  her.  "Look 
about." 

A  second's  delay,  and  then  Bertha  again  called 
out:  "I  think  it  must  be  out  there." 

"  Wait  a  minute,"  he  answered.  "  I  expect  you  're 
standing  on  it.  May  I  come  in?" 

He  walked  up  the  steps,  pushed  the  door  open 
and  went  into  the  caravan.  The  door  swung  to. 

Rose  walked  home  to  the  Priory  in  a  whirl  of 
emotions  —  all  distressing.  She  felt  outraged. 
She  could  not  remember  that  she  had  ever  been 
so  angry  as  this  in  all  her  life.  To  be  kissed,  un 
expectedly,  caught  hold  of,  all  unaware,  held  by 


The  Caravan  Man  275 

the  shoulders,  her  lips  pressed  by  this  man's !  In 
tolerable,  she  told  herself,  refusing  for  one  instant 
to  consider  the  question  as  to  whether  the  inci 
dent  had  not  seemed,  at  the  time,  more  startling, 
agitating,  than  outrageous.  Then,  his  apology  — 
no,  he  had  not  apologized;  he  had  merely  explained 
—  offered  a  coarse  compliment  to  her  looks,  which 
he  had  dared  to  put  forward  as  his  excuse.  Really,  he 
had  almost  seemed  to  suggest  that  she  was  to  blame! 

Yet  —  yet  —  it  had  all  seemed  so  genuine  — 
the  offence  in  the  first  place,  his  stammering,  ner 
vous  explanation,  his  pleading  with  her  not  to  be 
angry.  But  no  doubt  he  was  adept  at  that  sort  of 
thing  —  a  practised  hand,  skilled  in  the  treatment 
of  fools  such  as  she.  And  then  the  idiotic  way  In 
which  she  had  permitted  herself  to  remain  there, 
to  listen  to  him,  to  be  detained,  as  it  were,  in  the 
mesh  of  his  words  —  and  then  to  be  dismissed 
abruptly!  She  went  hot  and  cold  at  the  thought. 
Of  course  she  would  never  see  him  again — that 
she  was  determined  on. 

She  made  an  effort  to  exhibit  some  sort  of  self 
control  as  she  entered  the  Priory,  but  the  flush 
in  her  cheeks  was  still  high  as  she  went  into  the 
room  where  her  grandmother  and  her  aunt  were 
sitting.  It  was  not  yet  ten  o'clock.  They  both 
looked  up  at  her.  They  seemed  to  be  surveying 
her  with  special  and  inquisitive  glances.  That 
was  just  her  guilty  conscience,  she  told  herself. 


276  The  Caravan  Man 

"Where  have  you  come  from?"  asked  Granny 
pleasantly.  "Have  you  been  out?  You're  very 
late  in." 

"Am  I?"  she  answered.  "I  just  strolled  across 
the  common,"  and  she  turned  to  leave  the  room. 

Neither  of  the  others  said  anything  more  to  her, 
and  her  hand  was  on  the  door,  when,  furiously  red, 
she  turned  again  to  them. 

"Granny,"  she  said,  "I  did  walk  on  the  com 
mon,  but  —  I  went  to  the  caravan,  and  had  sup 
per  there  with  Mr.  Jones." 

"Supper!"  said  Granny.  "Whatanidea!  Whose 
idea  was  it?" 

"His  —  mine  —  his,  I  mean  —  that  is,  Mr. 
Jones  asked  me  if  I'd  dare  to,  like  to,  and  I  said 
I  would.  So  I  went  there.  He  gave  me  some  ham 
and  some  champagne,  and  I  drank  it.  I  did  n't 
mean  to  be  so  late,  but  we  got  talking." 

What,  exactly,  she  had  expected  from  the  two 
elder  women  in  return  for  this  confession  she  could 
not  have  said,  but  certainly  she  was  staggered  at 
the  calm  way  in  which  her  thunderbolt  was  al 
lowed  to  —  to  drop  on  the  hearthrug,  so  to  speak, 
and  fizzle  out  quietly. 

"Dear  me!"  said  Granny,  "what  a  venturesome 
thing  to  do !  Supper,  indeed !  Out-of-doors  at  this 
time  of  night!  I  think,  Rose,  that  Mr.  Jones 
should  have  asked  permission  before  he  invited 
you." 


The  Caravan  Man  277 

"If  Mr.  Jones  suggests  such  a  thing  again, 
Rose,"  said  Aunt  Anne,  "you  must  tell  him  to  see 
us  first." 

"  I  would  n't  go  again,"  she  answered. 

Her  cheeks  were  burning.  She  felt  for  an  in 
stant  that  she  would  burst  out  with  the  whole 
terrible  tale  of  the  outrage,  but  something  tied  her 
tongue.  She  turned  and  went  out  of  the  room  and 
up  to  her  own. 

The  window  was  wide  open.  She  tossed  her  hat 
on  the  bed;  she  had  not  put  it  on,  but  had  carried 
it  in  her  hand  from  the  caravan.  The  blind  had 
not  been  drawn.  She  stood  by  the  window  and 
looked  out.  The  night,  breathless,  silent;  the 
starry  skies,  deeply  violet;  the  vague  landscape, 
spaced  weirdly  out,  all  worked  in  a  little  while 
their  effect  upon  her. 

At  first,  as  she  stood  there,  she  was  half  fright 
ened  by  the  rush  of  strange  feelings  that  surged 
through  her.  Something  tremendous  seemed  to 
have  happened  —  and  indeed  this  was  no  delu 
sion  of  hers,  for,  in  very  truth,  in  that  brief  mo 
ment  of  Bamfield's  attack,  there  had  burst  for 
ever  within  her  the  dam  behind  which  a  great  res 
ervoir  of  unknown  emotions  had  silently  gathered 
since  the  dawn  of  her  shy  womanhood. 

Shame  she  felt,  indignation,  anger  —  all  at  a 
pitch  of  intensity  of  which  she  had  never  dreamed 
herself  capable.  But,  after  these,  gathering  strength 


2  7  8  The  Caravan  Man 

each  second  as  she  stood  looking  out  into  the  night, 
came  another  new  and  terrifying  sensation  that 
was  neither  shame  nor  anger  —  that  seemed,  in 
fact,  to  sweep  all  these  aside  as  quite  childish 
things;  that  brought  her  memory  to  bear  on  all 
that  had  passed  and  kept  her  mind  lingering  over 
just  those  aspects  of  the  evening  which  she  had 
determined  to  ignore.  He  had  kissed  her  —  seized 
her  and  kissed  her  —  unfairly,  unexpectedly  — 
Here  the  strange,  new  impulse  in  her  mind  made 
her  pause.  Unexpectedly?  She  flushed  in  the 
dark.  Somehow,  she  confessed,  when  that  gay 
attempt  at  fortune-telling  had  flickered  away,  a 
vague  warning  had  seemed  to  come  to  her,  not  of 
a  kiss  —  that  she  could  honestly  say  she  had  not 
dreamed  of  —  but  that  a  climax  of  some  kind  was 
bound  to  come.  Then,  she  had  protested  —  but 
she  had  lingered;  and  it  was  not  merely  his  de 
taining  attitude  and  words  that  had  kept  her  there. 
She  had  wanted  to  stop,  had  wanted  to  go,  too, 
but  something  that  sprang  as  much  from  her  as 
from  him  had  played  its  part  in  keeping  her  there, 
listening  to  each  word  of  his  —  listening,  even  at 
the  last,  for  more.  Then  she  had  walked  away, 
but  supposing  he  had  run  after  her?  Supposing  he 
had  caught  her  up,  had  put  his  hand  on  her  arm, 
had  said,  "Rose,  wait!"  What  then? 

She  drew  a  chair  to  the  window,  put  her  arms 
on  the  ledge,  and  looked  to  where,  just  by  the  cor- 


The  Caravan  Man  279 

ner  of  the  house,  the  air  gave  some  faint  reflection 
of  Bamfield's  fire.  He  was  there,  the  offender, 
snubbed,  scorned,  his  offering,  his  picture,  con 
temned.  No  doubt  he  was  sitting  by  the  fire,  prop 
erly  belittled  in  his  own  mind.  She  had  behaved 
so  properly,  her  conduct  had  been  in  such  correct 
contrast  to  his,  that  he  must  be  feeling  very  much 
ashamed  indeed,  if  he  had  any  decent  feeling,  and 
this  she  was  willing  to  concede  him. 

Why  had  he  done  it?  She  blushed  as  she  re 
called  his  excuse — "You  were  so  beautiful." 
How  coarse!  And  yet,  doubtless,  recognizing  his 
mistake,  he  had  been  in  too  nervous  a  state  to 
pick  his  words.  And  in  a  way,  it  had  not  been  un 
pleasant  to  hear;  in  fact,  she  did  not  see  quite  how, 
if  any  excuse  were  possible,  a  better  one  could  have 
been  offered  her. 

And  at  that,  in  a  flash,  the  strange  something 
now  guiding  her  thoughts  whispered,  "He  meant 
it."  Suddenly  she  became  quite  sure  that  he  had 
meant  it.  She  knew  her  beauty.  Bamfield  had 
spoken  rightly — "You've  looked  in  your  glass  a 
thousand  times  and  known  yourself  lovely."  Of 
course  she  had.  She  blushed  at  herself  to  recall 
it,  and,  recalling  it,  made  excuses  for  herself  —  and 
for  Bamfield. 

In  a  flash  there  had  come  to  her,  not,  perhaps, 
full  knowledge,  but  some  comprehension  of  what 
a  woman's  beauty  means  to  a  man  like  Bamfield. 


2  8  o  The  Caravan  Man 

All  the  strange  exaltation  of  the  vagabond  meal 

—  the  laughter,  the  idle,  free,  wandering  chatter 

—  was  explained  to  her.  There  had  been  a  magic 
in  the  air  —  in  the  moonlight,  in  the  firelight,  in 
the  Chinese  lantern  swinging  on  the  tree,  in  the 
silence,  the  shadows;  and  right  in  the  very  core 
of  it  all  had  been  she  herself.   All  the  charm  of 
hour  and  place  had  received  its  last  touch  of  in 
tensity  from  her  beauty.    It  had  been  her  face, 
her  presence,  that  had  crowned  all  these  influences, 
her  voice  that  had  set  vibrating  the  wondrous 
chord  of  harmony  that  had  struck  into  Bamfield, 
set  him  thrilling,  and  brought  him  to  her,  first  as 
the  man  masterful,  seizing  her,  claiming  her  lips 
without  even  preliminary  demand,  and  then,  as 
the  suppliant,  excusing,  faltering. 

She  rose;  she  smiled  in  the  darkness;  she  drew 
a  deep  breath ;  she  felt  herself  transfigured.  Power 
and  the  consciousness  of  power  had  come  to  her. 
The  strange,  interesting,  wayward  man,  to  whom 
she  now  recognized  that  she  had  been  drawn  with 
a  sense  of  submission,  had  suddenly  succumbed 
to  her.  In  that  second  in  which,  as  a  brute  of 
greater  strength,  he  had  most  freely  lorded  it  over 
her,  her  power  had  struck  him  down,  and  that 
power  she  now  held  in  leash,  to  let  slip  at  him 
again,  if  and  when  she  wished. 

If?  She  laughed  to  herself.  When?  The  moon 
had  risen  by  now;  the  night  was  still;  the  faint 


The  Caravan  Man  281 

reflection  of  his  fire  showed  out  there;  romance 
was  still  there,  the  magic,  the  unknown,  compell 
ing  thing  that  hovered  round  the  caravan;  and 
in  herself  lay  the  queendom  of  it  all,  to  take  there 
with  her  if  she  chose  to  go  —  now,  while  the  moon 
light  baffled  his  eyes  and  the  night  air  lapped  his 
senses  round. 

And  while  she  hesitated,  her  lips  thrilled  again, 
as  if  to  the  touch  of  his  lips;  she  half  raised  her 
hands  as  if  his  hands  again  held  her  by  the  shoul 
ders;  and  oblivious  to  the  full  force  of  the  spell, 
joying  only  in  her  knowledge,  new-sprung,  of  the 
power  it  gave  her,  and  ignorant  of  the  faintest 
suspicion  of  her  own  subjection  to  Its  influence, 
she  went  downstairs,  passed  across  the  lawn, 
opened  the  gate  onto  the  common,  and  stole  to 
ward  the  caravan. 

Downstairs,  Granny  and  Aunt  Anne  had  said 
little.  They  were  too  full  for  utterance.  A  tre 
mendous  thing  hovered  on  their  mental  horizons, 
so  tremendous  that  both  felt  breathless  and  afraid 
to  speak  too  pointedly. 

"She's  lovely,"  said  Granny,  "and  he's  a  nice- 
looking  fellow." 

"It's  a  queer  life  for  a  peer  of  the  realm  to 
choose,"  said  Aunt  Anne. 

"Rose  is  just  the  sort  of  girl  to  enjoy  a  life  of 
that  sort." 

"It's  not  my  idea,"  said  Aunt  Anne,  "of  the 


282  The  Caravan  Man 

life  a  peer  of  the  realm  and  his  wife  ought  to 
lead." 

The  two  ladies  went  up  to  their  respective 
rooms. 

Granny  was  too  excited  to  go  to  bed.  She  stood 
by  her  window,  wide  open  to  the  warm  air.  It  was 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  Priory  to  that  in  Rose's 
room,  and  she  could  clearly  see  the  glow  of  Bam- 
field's  fire  among  the  trees.  And  of  course  there 
were  the  moon  and  the  violet  sky,  the  stars,  the 
wistful,  unreal  lights  and  shadows,  the  red,  misty 
halo  round  the  Chinese  lanterns  —  all  operating 
in  the  still  young,  the  eternally  young,  bosom  of 
this  skinny  old  lady.  She  watched;  she  dreamed; 
she  smiled.  All  unaware,  the  gates  of  her  heart 
swung  open;  the  spirit  of  romance  swept  in. 

At  that  instant,  whiff!  —  a  sudden  blaze  of 
light  shot  up  among  the  trees,  cutting  clearly  out 
against  the  blackness  of  the  night  the  shape  of  the 
caravan.  Whatever  was  it?  —  Momentarily  she 
expected  the  appalling  roar  of  the  explosion  which 
must  follow  —  but  all  was  quiet.  But  —  but  —  it 
must  mean  something.  It  was  an  unearthly, 
blinding  rush  of  light;  it  must  mean  —  well,  what 
could  it  possibly  mean?  She  ought  to  enquire, 
she  ought  to  know,  she  must  know  — 

She  looked  around,  found  a  fleecy  white  shawl, 
wrapped  it  around  her  dear  old  head,  stole  down 
stairs,  passed  across  the  lawn  through  the  gate 


The  Caravan  Man  283 

onto  the  common,  and  stole  toward  Bamfield's 
caravan. 

Rose,  a  hundred  yards  ahead,  was  passing  across 
the  tree-roots.  She  saw  the  despised  picture  lean 
ing  against  the  tree-trunk;  she  picked  it  up  and  ap 
proached  the  caravan.  She  had  just  missed  seeing 
Bamfield  go  in,  but  she  felt  sure  he  was  there. 

"Mr.  Jones,"  she  called  out  shyly. 

"Funny,"  came  "Mr.  Jones's"  voice  from  in 
side  the  caravan.  "  It  must  be  here." 

Somebody  in  there  with  him!  Rose  stopped. 

A  voice  —  a  woman's  voice  —  came  clear  and 
confident: —  "It  can't  be." 

Bamfield's  voice:  "Do  you  know,  I  expect  we're 
staring  straight  at  it  all  the  time  and  don't  see  it. 
Dash  it  all,  is  n't  it  queer — " 

The  woman's  voice:  "I  can't  go  home  without 
it." 

"  If  it  is  n't  inside,  then  it  must  be  outside  — 
that's  all." 

The  caravan  door  was  opening.  Rose  shrank 
behind  the  tree-trunk,  peering  around.  Bamfield 
appeared,  came  down  the  steps,  struck  a  match. 

At  that,  in  the  dim  light  of  the  lantern  that 
illuminated  the  interior  of  the  caravan  and  now 
streamed  out  through  the  open  door,  appeared 
Bertha  Babbage.  To  Rose  she  appeared  as  a 
stranger,  a  tall,  queenly  woman,  bare-shouldered 
—  not  even  properly  —  oh,  yes,  she  was  dressed, 


284  The  Caravan  Man 

if  one  might  call  that  thing  a  dress  —  with  bur 
nished  fair  hair.  She  stooped  forward,  coming 
down  the  steps,  Bamfield  helping  her  with  ex 
tended  hand  — 

Rose  could  scarcely  breathe.  They  came  to 
wards  her,  looking  about  them  as  they  wandered 
about,  scanning  the  ground.  She  shrank  back 
farther. 

Poor  Rose,  how  short  her  empiry!  A  few  short 
minutes  ago  she  had  crowned  herself  woman  and 
conqueror,  rejoicing  in  the  flood  of  crowding  emo 
tions  all  touched  with  triumph  that  filled  her 
bosom;  and  now,  right  on  the  scene  of  her  first 
victory,  a  poison  dart  had  struck  her. 

She  had  to  put  her  hand  against  the  tree-trunk 
to  steady  herself.  What  was  this  new,  this  terrible 
sensation?  It  checked  her  breathing,  it  set  her 
heart  beating  rapidly,  it  made  her  knees  trem 
ble.  She  knew  it  at  once  —  it  was  jealousy.  She 
watched,  and  as  she  watched  she  felt  suffocating. 
She  was  being  robbed.  She  was  being  deceived. 
This  man,  This  Man,  hers,  fairly  won,  with  no 
conscious  effort,  yet  beyond  all  question  captive 
of  her  bow  and  spear,  was  being  reft  from  her, 
stolen,  by  That  Woman ! 

Have  no  fear  for  Rose's  dignity.  Even  as  her 
indignation  rose  hot  within  her  all  her  instincts 
joined  to  silence  it.  Not  by  word  or  deed  would 
she  reveal  her  thoughts;  nay,  it  would  have  been 


The  Caravan  Man  285 

agonizing  to  allow  her  presence  to  be  discovered. 
To  be  secret,  to  be  silent,  to  suffer  and  give  no 
sign  —  with  no  conscious  choice  she  took  these  for 
her  conduct.  But,  oh,  with  what  wide-open  eyes 
she  watched.  Were  these  the  sweet  and  friendly 
eyes  that  charmed,  looking  out  from  the  face  on 
the  wall  of  the  Primrose  Hill  studio  ? 

Suddenly:  "My  goodness!"  said  the  Woman. 
"Here's  some  one  coming."  She  turned,  swept 
her  skirts  about  her  and  fled  up  the  steps,  back 
again  Into  the  caravan.  There  was  guilt  for  you! 
Rose  saw  Bamfield  peer  into  the  darkness,  foot 
steps  rustled  there,  something  was  coming  across 
the  grass,  it  drew  nearer,  it  emerged  into  the  fire 
light- 
It  was  Mr.  Gubbins  again! 
Mr.  Gubbins's  condition  was  lightly  touched 
upon  on  the  occasion  of  his  last  appearance,  an 
hour  or  so  previously.  That  condition,  regarded 
as,  from  some  points  of  view,  lower  in  plane  than 
the  elect  would  commend,  had  now  distinctly 
deteriorated  further.  Probably  after  reaching 
Watercreese  Farm  some  further  libation  had  ap 
pealed  as  permissible;  possibly  on  his  errand  of 
benevolence  to  the  supper-party  the  cargo  he 
bore  within  the  coffer  of  his  ribs  had  not  yet  got 
fully  to  work.  At  any  rate,  he  was  now,  to  be 
plain,  very  drunk. 

As  on  his  earlier  appearance,  he  bore  a  bundle 


286  The  Caravan  Man 

of  clothes,  but  not,  this  time,  the  funeral  suit. 
It  was  a  bit  difficult  to  say  what  it  was,  but  shape 
less  as  was  the  parcel  it  made,  one  might  gather 
a  hint  of  something  in  the  nature  of  a  fawn  article, 
probably  a  waistcoat,  a  pair  of  shepherd's-plaid 
trousers,  a  black  tail-coat,  in  short,  the  principal 
items  of  a  man's  apparelling,  with  nothing  distinc 
tively  funereal  about  them. 

And  they  were  all  Wringing  Wet. 

They  looked,  even  in  the  firelight,  soggy.  They 
dripped.  They  stuck  together  damply.  Mr.  Gub- 
bins  carried  them  well  away  from  his  own  person, 
with  extended  hands.  Pearly  drops  escaped  from 
their  dangling  ends. 

Bamfield  stood  to  greet  him.  He  greeted  Bam- 
field.  He  "ucked"  erratically  as  he  spoke. 

"  IIHo,  mester —  it  wash  n't  you,  then?" 

"What  was  n't  me?" 

"  Shap  widout  —  wirrout  —  wizzhout  erry  — 
uck  —  closhe?" 

"Without  what?" 

"Erry  —  uck  —  clo  —  uck  —  closhe  —  you 
know  w'at  —  uck  —  closhe  is,  dontcher  —  uck  ? " 

"What  have  you  got  there?"  asked  Bamfield. 

"  Closhe  —  I  gorris  —  uck  —  closhe,"  replied 
Mr.  Gubbins. 

"Whose  clothes?" 

Mr.  Gubbins  held  his  straggly  bundle  up,  shook 
a  few  lingering  drops  from  it.  "I  durro.  Burri- 


The  Caravan  Man  287 

gorem."  He  surveyed  Bamfield  solemnly,  swaying 
slightly  as  he  did  so.  Then  he  offered  further  news, 
in  a  whisper.  "Lorsh  my  gol'  wash." 

"Your  what?" 

"Wash  —  you  know  warra  wash  is,  dontcher  — 
uck?  Gol'  wash  —  gamfer's  gol'  wash."  He 
grinned  as  if,  after  all,  he  saw  a  certain  amount  of 
fun  in  a  man's  losing  a  presumably  valuable  heir 
loom. 

"How  came  you  to  lose  it?" 

"I  durro,  but  I  lorsht  it.  On  a  scarecrow." 

"Do  you  mean  you  put  your  watch  on  a  scare 
crow  ?  —  What  for  ? " 

"I  durro.  'Oos  fault?  No*  mine."  He  assever 
ated  this  with  a  solemn  shake  of  the  head.  "No, 
but  Dorry'll  brame  me.  Why 're  they  wet,  zheshe 
closhe?"  He  watched  Bamfield  carefully  as  he  put 
the  question  in  the  manner  of  a  cross-examining 
attorney.  "Washer  man  doin'  goin'  about  my 
fiel's  inner  dark  —  uck  —  aw  wet  —  wringing  wet 
—  shopp'n'  wet?" 

Bamfield  felt  tired.  "I  don't  know.  You'd 
better  go  home,  Jarge." 

"Lemmerclock  —  uck  —  er  night,  runn'n  about 
my  fiel's  wizzout  'ny  closhe.  Catch  'is  dether  col'. 
Serve  'im  right.  God  my  gol'  wash.  Brasted  thief, 
eh?  Ain't  it  —  uck?" 

"Well,"  Bamfield  advised  him  soothingly,  "you 
run  after  him,  Jarge,  and  catch  him." 


288  The  Caravan  Man 

"Catch  him!'*  said  Mr.  Gubbins,  with  sudden 
vivacity.  "I  caught  'im  one  wizher  shtick  —  uck! 
Robbing  my  scarecrow.  Fine  thing  man  can't  put 
Jis  own  —  uck  —  funeral  closhe  on  'is  own  scare 
crow  but  anuzzer  man  comes  along  an*  shteals  'em. 
An*  my  gamfer's  gol'  wash  inner  bresh  pock  — 
uck  —  it" 

Bamfield  saw,  behind  Gubbin's  back,  the  face  of 
Bertha  appear  at  the  caravan  door.  So  did  Rose. 

"Do  get  him  away!"  whispered  and  signalled 
Bertha.  "I  must  get  home." 

Bamfield  spoke  firmly.  "Look  here,  Jarge,  clear 
off,  will  you?" 

Mr.  Gubbins  stiffened.  "'Ooo  you  callin'  Jarge? 
'Oo'reyou?" 

"Now,  now,  Jarge — " 

"Zhish  your  common?  Shtop  'ere  if  I  like." 

Bamfield  glanced  at  the  pond.  No,  no;  this 
obnoxious  person  was  the  saviour  of  the  situation 
an  hour  ago.  Perish  the  thought.  He  took  another 
course.  He  shook  hands  heartily  with  Mr.  Gubbins. 
"Well,  good-night,  Mr.  Gubbins.  See  you  to 
morrow,  perhaps.  I  'm  going  to  bed." 

He  went  up  the  caravan  steps,  entered  his  cara 
van,  shut  the  door. 

"Goo'  night,"  called  out  Mr.  Gubbins  heartily. 
He  wandered  over  towards  the  fire.  By  its  light  he 
proceeded  to  examine  what  pockets  he  could  find 
as  he  turned  the  bundle  of  clothes  about. 


The  Caravan  Man  289 

"Wunner  if  Vsh  gorrer  wash?  Leshee.  Feel 
in's  pock  —  uck  —  its.  Pockets  .  .  .  'Ullo!  Wash 
thish?  Wash,  wash  innis  poggit?"  He  had  the  flat 
of  his  hand  on  the  fawn  waistcoat,  and  now  in 
great  haste  he  endeavoured  to  find,  and  succeeded 
at  last  in  finding,  the  entrance  to  a  pocket,  into 
which  he  plunged  unsteady  fingers.  "Ow!"  —  He 
was  startled.  He  had  withdrawn  something  which 
he  dropped  hastily.  "Fog!"  he  said.  "Innis  pogg 
—  prog  innis  fog  —  in  frock  —  in  prog  —  uck !" 
He  gave  it  up.  The  something,  whatever  it  was, 
progressed  from  obscurity  into  oblivion  in  three 
sprightly  hops.  "Wash  thish?"  He  was  busy 
again  with  the  saturated  garments.  "Shea'n 
tickit  —  Bedford  Park  er  Bon  Sheet,  shreet  — 
IfFelshine —  Shea'n  tiggit  in  froggit,  in  prog  — 
frog  —  I  durro  —  lorsht  my  gol'  wash!"  He 
looked  about  him  dismally.  Perhaps  with  the 
intention  of  eliciting  further  advice  from  Bamfield, 
he  stepped  trippingly  towards  the  caravan.  Ar 
rived  at  the  steps,  he  pulled  up  short. 

"'Urro!  Wash  zhish?"  He  stooped,  and  from 
behind  the  steps  he  picked  up  the  missing  evening 
cloak.  He  examined  it  wonderingly.  Then  an  arch 
smile  began  to  spread  over  his  features.  "La'd'sh 
frock!" 

He  stared  about  him. 

"Were'sh  er  lady?"  He  looked  at  the  silent 
caravan.  "Inside,  I  eshpeck."  He  surveyed  the 


290  The  Caravan  Man 

lighted,  speechless  windows  with  disapproval.  A 
sense  of  duty  took  him.  He  went,  precariously,  up 
the  steps.  He  smacked  with  the  flat  of  his  hand  on 
the  door,  and  gave  voice  to  the  just  indignation  and 
legitimate  enquiry  that  moved  him  to  investigate. 

"'Oo  yer  gorrin  there,  eh?"  No  answer.  He 
hammered  again.  "'Ere,  coom  out.  Coom  our- 
rofit."  Still  silence.  He  peeped  through  the  key 
hole,  and  apparently  dissatisfied  with  the  extent 
of  the  view,  endeavoured  to  get  a  look  past  the 
red  blinds  over  the  window. 

"You're  a  shandle,  a  sandle,  a  scanlous  man! 
You're  a — "  He  was  back  again  at  the  keyhole. 
Suddenly,  but  quite  noiselessly  the  right-hand  win 
dow  above  him  opened;  Bamfield's  head  appeared, 
then  his  right  arm  and  hand,  armed  with  a  cane, 
came  out  as  well.  He  lifted  the  arm  and  with  a 
vicious  little  singing  snarl  the  cane  smote  Mr. 
Gubbins  —  where  he  least  expected  anything  of 
the  kind.  Bamfield's  head,  arm,  and  cane  then 
swiftly  and  noiselessly  withdrew  and  the  red  blind 
fell  into  place. 

Mr.  Gubbins  dropped  the  cloak  and  the  bundle 
of  clothes  and  fell  down  the  steps  with  the  greatest 
promptitude,  his  face  convulsed  with  emotion 
which  again  embodied  both  indignation  and  legiti 
mate  enquiry,  yet  of  a  distinctly  different  quality 
from  those  previously  animating  it.  He  stared 
everywhere  but  at  the  caravan.  He  got  up,  and 


The  Caravan  Man  291 

stole  stealthily  round  the  caravan,  rushed  swiftly 
round  it  in  reverse  direction,  looked  underneath 
it  — 

He  gave  it  up.  It  was  all  part  of  the  evening's 
enigma:  the  disappearance  of  his  watch,  the  man 
"wizzout  closhe" —  clearly  prudence  counselled 
retreat  to  familiar  surroundings.  Mr.  Gubbins, 
silent  now,  went  off  home  to  bed. 

Five  seconds  passed.  Rose  still  watched  from 
behind  the  tree.  The  door  opened,  and  Bamfield 
came  out,  looking  cautiously  about.  No  doubt  he 
looked  for  Gubbins,  but  his  eye  lit  almost  immedi 
ately  on  the  cloak. 

"Here  we  are!"  he  cried. 

Once  again  Rose  saw  Bertha  come  from  the 
caravan  and  down  the  steps.  Miss  Babbage,  for 
all  her  size,  was  in  a  state  of  nerves.  With  the  suc 
cessful  accomplishment  of  the  scheme  she  had 
evolved,  something  of  the  sense  of  her  audacity 
had  reached  her.  Gubbins' s  visit  had  increased 
the  pace  of  the  reaction.  She  was  in  a  state  which 
could  collapse  into  panic  at  a  touch. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said  nervously.  "Do  you 
know,  I'm  quite  shaking.  Don't  think  me  silly, 
but  I've  never  done  anything  like  this  before." 

"Pooh!"  said  Bamfield  reassuringly;  "it's  noth 
ing.  You '11  be  all  right." 

"Let's  get  back.  Do  you  think  old  Gubbins 
guessed  it  was  me  in  your  caravan?" 


292  The  Caravan  Man 

"I  tell  you  it's  all  right.  Gubbins  had  n't  the 
least  idea  who  you  are,  and  no  one  need  know 
anything  whatever  about  it  unless  you  let  it  out." 

Bertha  put  her  kitbag,  in  which  she  had  now 
packed  her  everyday  things,  down  on  the  top  step. 

"That's  all  very  well,"  she  rejoined,  only  half 
heartened,  "but  you  don't  know  how  people  talk 
about  here.  If  any  one  else  turns  up  I  shall  —  I 
shall  run." 

A  footstep  behind  Rose.  She  turned.  It  was 
Granny,  coming  towards  the  caravan,  her  eyes 
fixed  on  the  group  of  two.  Rose  stepped  back 
farther  behind  the  tree-trunk.  Granny  passed  on. 

Bertha  had  the  large  bag  in  her  hand  again.  She 
turned  to  let  Bamfield  put  the  cloak  around  her, 
but  looked  back  at  him  over  her  shoulder.  At  that 
instant,  the  white-clad,  shawled  form  of  old  Mrs. 
Grampette  stepped  suddenly  into  the  gleam  of  the 
lantern  shining  from  the  caravan's  interior.  Bertha 
gave  a  scream,  dropped  the  bag,  and  ran.  Bamfield, 
startled  at  the  scream,  looked  round,  jumped  in 
surprise  at  the  white,  motionless  figure  at  his  elbow, 
turned,  dropped  the  cloak,  and  dashed  after  Bertha. 

Rose  stepped  out  from  behind  the  tree,  put  the 
picture  down,  and  turned  wearily  away.  All  the 
life  and  colour  had  gone  from  her  face. 

There  came  a  scream  from  Bertha  —  a  shout 
from  Bamfield.  The  old  lady  hurried  up  the  steps 
of  the  caravan  and  looked  eagerly  after  them. 


The  Caravan  Man  293 

"They're  in  the  pond!"  she  cried  to  the  night,  as 
if  in  triumph.  "Ah-ha!" 

She  came  down  the  steps  with  marvellous  agil 
ity,  paused,  looked  around,  let  her  eye  leap  swiftly 
from  the  cloak  to  the  bag,  the  bag  to  the  bundle  of 
wet  clothes,  pounced  on  the  two  former,  and,  gig 
gling  with  unfeigned  delight,  bore  her  two  prizes 
off  with  her. 

Rose  was  already  entering  the  Priory  gate. 


CHAPTER  XII 

ANOTHER  perfect  day  broke  on  the  common. 
When  the  world  was  properly  aired,  the  air 
warmed,  the  dew  drunk  from  the  grass  by  the  hot 
sun,  Bamfield  stirred  in  the  caravan,  dressed,  got 
his  breakfast,  shaved,  and  surveyed  the  pair  of  flan 
nels  he  had  worn  the  evening  before.  They  were  in 
a  terrible  state,  with  black,  soft  pond  mud  halfway 
up  the  thighs,  together  with  a  plaster  of  pond  weed. 
Bamfield  grinned  as  he  looked  at  them.  If  his 
things  were  like  this,  what  state  was  Bertha's  frock 
in?  —  her  borrowed  frock,  that  joyous  creation, 
that  airy  fabric  of  light  and  loveliness,  costing 
goodness  knows  how  much,  meant  to  queen  it  at 
some  high  social  function,  doomed  instead  to  the 
muddy  ordeal  of  the  black-ooze-bottomed  pond. 
Exactly  what  the  young  lady  would  do  about  it  he 
could  not  well  divine.  He  brought  his  thoughts 
back  to  the  question  of  his  white  flannel  trousers. 
He  decided  that  perhaps  it  would  be  a  good  thing 
to  let  the  mud  dry  on,  then  beat  it  off  with  a  cane 
and  send  them  to  be  cleaned.  He  had  a  vague  idea 
that  if  he  tried  to  wash  the  stuff  off,  it  would  only 
work  into  the  fabric  and  never  allow  them  to  be 
anything  better  than  a  dingy  white  at  the  best. 
So  he  rigged  up  a  string  between  the  front  and  hind 


The  Caravan  Man  295 

wheels  of  his  caravan  and  spread  the  garment  out 
to  dry.  By  their  side  he  disposed  Mr.  Iffelstein's 
things.  He  had  had  little  difficulty  in  gathering 
the  facts  that  underlay  the  dishevelled  statements 
made  by  Mr.  Gubbins  the  night  before.  Just  what 
course  of  conduct  Iffelstein  had  adopted  under  the 
distressing  circumstances  that  had  undoubtedly 
engulfed  him  Bamfield  could  not  guess.  The  future 
would  no  doubt  disclose  the  secret  of  the  past.  So 
very  fairly  and  good-naturedly  he  gave  Mr.  Iffel 
stein' s  clothes  a  swish  or  two  in  the  pond,  and  then 
a  chance  to  dry  on  the  line. 

He  had  completed  this  operation  when,  coming 
back  to  the  caravan  steps,  he  discovered  Bertha 
Babbage  seated  on  the  turf  close  by.  He  stared  at 
her,  aghast.  And  well  he  might.  For  plainly  it 
had  been  "a  night  out"  with  poor  Bertha.  Her 
hair  had  evidently  not  been  arranged  that  morning 
—  a  wisp  or  two  of  hay  stuck  out  of  it  here  and 
there;  and  she  still  wore  the  dress  of  the  previous 
evening.  It  had  been  just  permissible  the  night 
before,  but  now,  in  broad  daylight,  with  an  intense 
sunlight  playing  over  her,  she  presented  a  stagger 
ing  spectacle  in  it.  She  knew  it.  Like  Bamfield's 
trousers,  almost  to  the  waist  it  was  clogged  with 
black  mud  and  duckweed,  half  dried  on.  Her  hands 
were  clasped  on  her  breast  in  a  pathetic  attempt  to 
manufacture  a  little  more  cover  for  herself;  she  was 
stooping,  drawing  her  shoulders  forward,  all  her 


296  The  Caravan  Man 

torso  shrinking  into  as  small  a  compass  as  it  could 
manage,  and  a  piteously  appealing  mixture  of 
smile  and  blush  mantled  her  face. 

"Hullo!  What's  this?"  gasped  Bamfield. 

"Don't  look  at  me!  What  do  I  look  like?"  came 
from  Bertha.  "My  hair —  Oh,  don't  laugh!  I 
have  had  a  night!" 

Bamfield,  with  an  effort,  composed  the  lines  of 
his  face  into  those  of  sympathetic  interest. 

"Poor  girl!  But  I  got  you  out  of  the  pond,  and 
took  you  nearly  as  far  as  your  door.  Whatever 
happened?" 

"Lots  of  things  happened,"  answered  Bertha. 
"Let  me  sit  down."  She  sat  down  on  the  caravan 
steps.  "What's  the  time?"  she  asked. 

Bamfield  glanced  at  his  watch.  "Ten  past  nine." 

"  I  shall  get  the  sack  from  the  post-office.  Can't 
be  helped,"  resignedly.  "You  know  I  made  you 
say  good-night  at  the  end  of  my  road.  I  went  on 
to  my  house  —  it's  only  a  hundred  yards  or  so  up 
the  road  —  and  then,  when  I  went  to  let  myself  in 
at  the  front  door,  I  suddenly  remembered  that  I 
had  n't  got  my  door- key." 

"Forgotten  it?" 

"Yes.  That  is,  I'd  brought  it  here  with  me  all 
right,  but  of  course  it  was  in  the  pocket  of  my 
other  dress,  and  that  was  in  the  bag,  and  that  I  'd 
left  behind  here,  when  we  ran  away." 

"You  ran  away,  you  mean." 


The  Caravan  Man  297 

"So  did  you."     ,. 

"I  only  ran  after  you." 

"Well,  anyhow,  there  was  the  key  —  and  there 
was  I.  My  landlady  's  stone-deaf,  so  I  went  round 
to  the  back  and  tried  to  see  if  I  could  manage  to 
get  the  scullery  window  open.  Fancy  me,  in  this 
get-up,  climbing  in  through  a  scullery  window  at 
that  hour  of  the  night!" 

Bamfield  laughed.  So  did  Bertha,  but  she  went 
on  ruefully:  — 

"  It  was  bolted,  and  I  got  a  bit  of  stick  and  tried 
to  push  the  bolt  back,  when  just  then  I  heard  a 
voice  from  the  top  window  next  door  say,  *  Good 
ness,  Jenny,  come  and  have  a  look  at  this!" 

"You  were  'this'?" 

"  Yes.  It  was  young  Stangers,  the  coach-builder. 
I  hate  him  and  I  hate  his  wife,  and  I  was  n't  going 
to  be  looked  at  by  them  while  I  was  that  —  this  — 
sight.  So,  like  a  fool,  I  ran  away  again.  What  was 
I  to  do?" 

"You  could  have  come  up  here." 

"Oh,  I  could  n't.  You  know  I  could  n't.  Well, 
I  had  to  do  something,  so  I  walked  across  the  fields 
to  a  hay-barn  in  a  meadow,  and  there  I  pulled 
down  some  of  the  hay,  made  a  sort  of  bed  in  it, 
took  off  my  wet  shoes  and  stockings  —  I  dare  n't 
take  off  my  frock,  of  course,  but  it  was  wet  — 
and  covered  myself  up  with  some  of  the  hay." 

"What  fun!" 


298  The  Caravan  Man 

"  It  was  n't  as  funny  as  you  seem  to  think.  I 
meant  to  wake  up  early  and  get  up  here,  and  I  knew 
you  'd  let  me  dress." 

"Oh,  but  wait  a  minute.  I  must  tell  you  — " 

"Let  me  tell  you  first.  It's  been  a  night!  I 
had  n't  been  there  two  minutes  when  a  man  came 
into  the  barn  —  a  fat,  lumbersome  sort  of  man. 
I'm  not  timid,  you  know,  but  really —  Well,  I 
did  begin  to  feel  queer.  But  I  thought  it  best  to 
pretend  to  be  asleep.  He  came  over  to  me,  and 
said  —  Never  mind." 

"Oh,  what  was  it?" 

"Never  mind.  It  was  to  himself,  but  I  heard 
him"  —  she  smiled  —  "and  then  he  went  away. 
I  lay  still  as  a  mouse  all  the  time." 

"Just  as  well  you've  got  some  nerve." 

"Thinks  I,  *  Bertha,  no  sleep  for  you  to-night, 
old  thing/  But,  bless  you,  I  simply  could  n't  keep 
awake.  Off  I  went,  and  slept  like  a  top,  and  when  I 
woke  it  was  broad  daylight.  So  out  I  came — and 
there  was  the  man,  lying  fast  asleep  against  the 
door-post." 

"Any  one  you  know?" 

"No;  but  he  was  a  decent  sort,  was  n't  he?  You 
know,  he  was  just  taking  care  of  me.  He'd  thought 
I  was  asleep,  I  suppose,  so  he  just  waited  there  to 
see  that  nothing  happened  to  me,  and  he'd  tumbled 
asleep  like  I  did.  That  was  nice  of  him.  I  like  him. 
I'd  like  to  see  him  again.  ^Well,  here  I  am,  none 


The  Caravan  Man  299 

the  worse,  but,  oh,  I  do  feel  so  undressed !  You  '11 
let  me  change,  won't  you?  Where's  my  bag?" 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  Bamfield.  "It's  gone." 

Bertha  stood  thunderstruck.  "Gone!  You  don't 
mean  it!" 

"I  do,"  said  Bamfield.  " When •  I  got  back,  it 
had  vanished,  and  so  had  the  cloak.  Whoever  it 
was  that  came  collared  them  both.  What  donkeys 
we  were  to  run!" 

"  I  was  n't  going  to  be  found  out.  The  cloak 
gone —  And  look  at  this  dress!" 

She  sat  appalled  as  she  considered  the  depressing 
spectacle  that  once  glorious  garment  now  offered. 
"Lady  Boulger  will  skin  me,"  she  said,  in  tones  of 
heartfelt  conviction  —  "  skin  me  —  and  serve  me 
right!  I'd  do  it  myself  to  any  woman  who  did  a 
thing  like  this  to  a  frock  of  this  sort,  if  it  belonged 
to  me.  My  word,  I'm  in  for  it!"  She  sat  thinking 
for  a  minute,  with  something  like  tears  coming  into 
her  eyes.  She  forced  them  back.  "This  puts  the 
lid  on  things  properly,  does  n't  it?  What  am  I  to 
do  ?  You  know,  as  a  rule  I  don't  care  what  people 
say,  but  —  well,  this  get-up  does  look  —  a  bit 
swift  in  daylight,  does  n't  it?" 

It  did. 

Bamfield  reassured  her.  "Don't  worry.  I've 
got  to  get  you  some  clothes,  that's  all.  I'll  go 
down  and  see  your  landlady.  What's  her  name, 
and  what's  the  number?" 


300  The  Caravan  Man 

"Mrs.  Rogers.  Number  sixteen." 

"All  right.  I  can  tell  her,  can  I,  just  what  hap 
pened?" 

"Oh,  yes.  She  knows  me.  She  won't  think  any 
thing  nasty,  like  that  beastly  Stanger  man  and 
his  wife." 

Bamfield  was  looking  curiously  at  her.  "Hullo," 
he  exclaimed,  "where  did  you  get  that  hat  from?" 

"Hat?"  said  Bertha  wonderingly.  "What  hat?" 

"The  one  you're  wearing." 

Bertha  put  her  hand  to  her  head,  felt,  incredu 
lously,  lifted  off  the  hat,  a  fawn-coloured  Trilby 
hat  of  excellent  quality  which  till  now  had  perched 
rather  giddily  on  her  hair.  She  stared  at  it  in 
astonishment. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said. 

"Don't  know!  —  don't  know  where  you  got  the 
hat  you're  wearing?" 

"I  don't,"  she  asseverated.  "I  don't  know  any 
thing  about  it.  And  what's  more,  I  don't  care. 
What's  the  good  of  a  hat?  Do  be  quick!  I  say" 
—  she  glanced  across  the  pond  —  "here's  some 
body  coming!  Look  at  me!  Can  I  go  inside?" 

"In  you  go." 

She  whipped  her  blackened  frock  around  her, 
fled  up  the  steps,  and  vanished  into  the  caravan, 
closing  the  door  behind  her. 

Bamfield  stared  at  the  approaching  figure.  It 
was  stout  and  bald-headed,  it  bulged  suddenly  in 


The  Caravan  Man  301 

a  violent  curve  below  the  waist,  and  the  top  button 
of  its  trousers  and  the  bottom  button  of  its  waist 
coat  were  undone. 

"What?  Monkey  again!" 

Monk  laid  his  bicycle  to  rest  on  the  grass  and 
sat  down. 

"Is  it  you,  then?  I  am  awake?  Don't  tell  me 
you  're  part  of  the  dream." 

"No,  I'm  not  part  of  a  dream.  What's  up  with 
you?" 

"Dear  lad,  let  me  light  up  and  tell  you  —  tell 
you  a  lie  I  made  up  as  I  came  along." 

He  pulled  out  his  pipe,  the  foulest  of  all  foul 
pipes,  and  Bamfield,  squatting  on  the  grass  in 
front  of  him,  listened  to  the  following,  given  off  in 
the  rapt  manner  of  a  crystal-gazer:  — 

"You  know,  after  I  left  you  yesterday,  I  met 
Iffelstein  and  got  him  away.  But  I  got  the  notion 
that  now  I'd  tumbled  across  you  I  wanted  to  see 
a  bit  more  of  you,  so  last  evening  I  biked  back.  I 
meant  to  sleep  somewhere  in  Ouseton  last  night 
and  get  up  here  this  morning.  I  was  fairly  late  in 
getting  to  Ouseton,  and  then,  just  outside  the  town, 
I  punctured.  I  was  fiddling  about  with  it  —  you 
know  what  a  job  it  is  with  only  a  lantern  and  the 
moonlight  to  see  by  —  when  all  of  a  sudden  I 
looked  up,  quite  by  chance,  and  there,  glimmering 
pale  in  the  shimmering  beams  of  the  silvery  moon, 
I  saw  —  a  ghost." 


3  o  2  The  Caravan  Man 

"This  was  —  how  long  after  closing-time?" 
Bamfield  threw  in  the  genial  suggestion. 

Monk,  with  a  wave  of  his  pipe,  dismissed  it  in 
contempt. 

"It  glided  along  the  road,  stopped  at  a  stile,  got 


over — " 

Ut 


'Ghosts  don't  get  over  stiles.  They  walk 
through  them." 

"  It  got  over,  crossed  the  meadow,  and  vanished 
among  the  wistful  shadows." 

"No  poetic  attempts,"  interposed  Bamfield. 
"The  plain  facts,  if  you  please." 

"I  went  over,  too,  and  found  that  there  was  a 
barn  there.  I  dodged  back,  got  my  bicycle,  lifted 
it  over  the  stile,  and  came  back  to  the  barn.  There 
was  a  brilliant  moon  last  night  that  lit  up  even  the 
shadows  inside  the  barn,  and  in  the  corner  among 
some  hay  I  saw  the  most  wonderful  thing  —  a  glo 
rious  girl,  fast  asleep,  in  the  very  latest  thing  in 
evening  dress.  Latest!  It  was  late  —  my  word! 
Only  just  in  time — " 

"Don't  be  sensuous,  Monkey,"  said  Bamfield, 
glancing  at  the  caravan  door.  It  was  slightly  ajar, 
v  "Of  course  I  saw  at  once  what  it  was —  a  case 
of  sleep-walking.  She  was  partly  covered  with  hay. 
I  knew  it  might  be  dangerous  to  wake  her  —  or  at 
least  I've  always  understood  so  in  these  cases. 
Besides,  even  if  it  had  n't  been  dangerous,  she'd 
have  been  horribly  startled,  and  I  should  have  felt 


3°3 

awkward.  At  the  same  time,  I  could  n't  very  well 
go  away,  and  leave  the  girl  alone,  could  I  ?  I  don't 
think  I  did  wrong.  I  went  in  and  had  a  look  at 
her  —  " 

"That  will  do,"  said  Bamfield  coldly.  "Pve 
outgrown  the  taste  for  stories  of  this  kind." 

"Oh,  don't  be  a  brutal  beast!"  Monk  exploded. 
"  I  stood  there  and  looked  at  her  —  a  glorious, 
lovely  thing,  sleeping  like  a  little  child  —  and  I 
felt  like  a  knight  of  the  middle-ages  — " 

"A  middle-aged  knight?" 

"Rot  away,  you  silly  ass!  I  wanted  to  take  off 
my  cloak  and  lay  it  over  that  fair  form,  to  shield 
it  from  the  night  dews,  and  then,  with  drawn 
sword,  stand  my  lonely  watch,  to  guard  that 
saintly  thing  from  harm." 

"You  move  me  deeply,"  said  Bamfield  in  tones 
of  earnest  sympathy. 

The  upper  half  of  the  caravan  door  was  distinctly 
ajar,  and  a  nose  and  a  bright  eye  could  be  seen 
peering  round  its  edge. 

Monk  went  on  serenely,  a  rapt  smile  playing 
around  his  lips  as  he  recalled  the  memories  of  the 
night  before. 

"I  went  out  and  sat  down  by  the  door-post  — 
there  was  n't  any  door  to  the  barn.  I  meant  to 
keep  awake,  but  after  a  time  I  fell  asleep.  I  must 
have  slept  soundly,  for  I  did  n't  hear  a  movement, 
and  it  was  nearly  nine  when  I  woke  —  precious* 


304  The  Caravan  Man 

stiff,  too,  I  tell  you.  I  looked  in,  and  she  was  gone! 
But  there  was  the  place  where  she'd  been  lying, 
with  the  hay  all  tumbled.  It  was  no  dream."  He 
stood  up.  "A  lovely  woman,  a  fashionable  woman 

—  I  'm  a  fool,  I  know,  but  I  '11  stay  in  this  neigh 
bourhood  till  I  find  her,  and  I'll  go  down  on  my 
knees  to  her,  and  if  a  flame  of  pure  and  passionate 
devotion — " 

A  voice  broke  in  on  his  ecstasy  —  Bertha's  voice 

—  from  the  caravan. 

"What  about  my  clothes,  Mr.  Jones?" 

Monk  whipped  round.  The  top  of  the  door  was 
now  wide  open,  and  framed  in  the  opening  Bertha's 
face  showed.  She  had  knelt  down,  and  over  the 
lower  part  of  the  door  her  face  beamed,  rosy,  smil 
ing,  thrilling  with  youth  and  high  spirits.  It  is 
given  but  seldom  to  a  woman  to  listen  unsuspected 
to  such  a  complete  and  generous  acknowledgment 
of  her  personal  charms.  Monk  lost  himself  for  a 
moment.  He  blushed  like  Bertha  herself.  Then: 
"You  —  you  —  Then  you  were —  are,  I  mean — 
I  mean  I  am  —  We  do  — "  ; 

He  turned  towards  Bamfield.  Bamfield  was 
already  making  his  exit  on  his  bicycle. 

"Bammy!"  cried  Monk. 

"I'm  off  on  business,"  came  Bamfield's  reply, 
and  the  bicycle  gathered  speed. 

Monk  turned  again  towards  the  caravan  door. 
The  face  there  nodded  in  a  friendly  way. 


The  Caravan  Man  305 

"  Good-morning,"  it  said. 

"Oh,  good-morning  —  good-morning.  It  is  you, 
then !  I  knew  I  'd  see  you  again." 

"I  heard  all  you  said  to  Mr.  Jones,"  breathed 
Bertha. 

"Jones?  Ah,  yes,  Jones!" 

"And  I  was  n't  asleep  when  you  came  into  the 
barn.  I  only  pretended  to  be.  I  heard  what  you 
said." 

"I  did  n't  know  I  said  anything." 

Monk  began  to  walk  up  the  steps.  Bertha 
stopped  him  hurriedly. 

"Don't,  please,  come  up  here!" 

"Oh,  all  right,"  said  Monk.  He  went  right  up 
to  the  caravan  by  the  side  of  the  steps,  instead. 
"What  did  I  say?" 

"Something.    You  said  it  to  yourself,  but  I 
heard.  You  were  nice." 
t  "What  was  it?  Do  tell  me." 

Bertha  popped  her  head  farther  out  over  the 
edge  of  the  door  to  look  down  at  him.  "You  said, 
*  Lovely'!"  she  murmured. 

"Did  I?"  replied  Monk  boldly.  "Well,  then,  I 
meant  it.  You  were  —  you  are,  you  know.", 

"Don't  be  silly,"  said  Bertha,  her  eyes  dancing 
with  pleasure.  "I  expect  you're  wondering  what 
it's  all  about  —  why  I  was  there  and  why  I'm 
here."  •  > 

"Of  course  I'm  wondering,  but  don't  you  think 


306  The  Caravan  Man 

I'm  worrying.  When  I  look  at  your  face  I  know 
there's  nothing  that  is  n't  quite  right.  Won't  you 
come  out  and  talk?" 

"Oh,  no.  1  feel  rather  awful  by  daylight.  I've 
still  got  that  frock  on,  you  know  — '  the  latest.' 
I  'm  in  a  horrible  fix,  and  Mr.  Jones  is  going  to  get 
me  out  of  it.  He's  a  dear." 

"Well,  so  am  I,"  said  Monk  jealously.  "Tell 
me  what  sort  of  a  fix  you're  in,  and  I'll  get  you 
out  of  it.  Bam  —  I  mean  Jones  —  is  quite  all 
right,  of  course,  but  he's  an  unbalanced  sort  of 
chap,  you  know,  whereas  I  — " 

"I  know,"  broke  in  Bertha.  "You're  nice,  too. 
You  looked  after  me  last  night,  did  n't  you  ?  And 
you  did  me  another  good  turn,  too." 

"Did  I?  What?" 

"You  woke  me  this  morning.  You —  you  snore 
a  bit.* 

Monk  started  at  the  word  "  snore,"  took  a  pace 
or  two  away.  "Snore!"  he  said.  "I  snore,  do  I? 
Well,  upon  my  word  — " 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Bertha. 

Monk,  with  an  evident  effort,  restrained  himself. 
"  I  'm  not  going  to  say." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"You  won't  be  offended?" 

"Depends  on  what  you  say,"  said  Bertha  coldly. 

"Well,  then  —  Oh,  I  can't  tell  you." 

Bertha  looked  unsmiling  at  him.   She  meant  to 


The  Caravan  Man  307 

have  an  explanation.  "Yes,  you  will.  Go  on. 
What  is  it?"  Monk  was  still  silent.  "Do  you 
mean  to  insinuate  that  /  snore?" 

Monk  nodded. 

"You  story-teller!  I'm  sure  I  don't."  Bertha 
turned  crimson.  Honestly,  can  you  wonder?  What 
young  and  beautiful  woman  could  listen  without 
indignation  to  an  accusation  of  this  kind  ? 

Monk  felt  the  necessity  of  placating  her.  "Don't 
let's  say  anything  more  about  it,"  he  pleaded. 

"Oh,  shan't  we,  though!  How  dare  you!  You 
ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself." 

Monk  saw  that  he  had  better  produce  without 
delay  any  evidence  he  had.  "Look  here,  all  I've 
got  to  say  is  that  twice  I  was  awakened  by  the 
most  terrific — "  The  blaze  in  Bertha's  face  com 
pelled  him  to  desist. 

"You  dare  say  such  a  thing!"  Her  eyes  flamed 
at  him,  her  nostrils  swelled. 

The  man  in  him  was  bound  to  respond  to  her 
challenge.  "It  shook  the  barn,"  he  said  stoutly. 

Bertha  groped  for  a  possible  explanation. 
"You're  dreaming,"  she  suggested. 

"Qnce  or  twice,"  said  Monk,  "I  nearly  came  in 
to  see  what  was  the  matter." 

"But — but — "  said  poor  Bertha,  her  lip  quiv 
ering  at  what  she  felt  was  cruelly  unjust  —  "I 
don't  —  I'm  sure  I  never — "  Faintly  she  won 
dered  if  she  ever. 


3  o  8  The  Caravan  Man 

"Well,"  reasoned  Monk,  however  unwillingly, 
"there  was  n't  any  one  else  there,  was  there?" 

"Wait  a  minute,"  said  Bertha.  She  tapped  her 
head.  "Where  did  I  get  this  hat?" 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  replied  Monk,  mysti 
fied. 

"There  you  are!"  said  Bertha,  suddenly  re 
lieved.  "It's  a  man's  hat,  and  I  don't  know 
whose.  But  now  I  seem  just  to  recollect  that 
when  I  woke  up  I  found  it  lying  beside  me  on 
the  hay,  and  I  put  it  on,  half  asleep,  without 
thinking — " 

"That's  it,"  Monk  agreed.  "Then  some  one, 
some  man,  stole  into  the  barn  and  slept  there." 

"And  snored  horribly.  Fancy  taking  away  a 
girl's  character  like  that!" 

"He's  a  dirty  dog,"  Monk  assured  her,  "and 
something  horrible  will  happen  to  him  before  long, 
you  see.  It's  all  right,  then.  You  don't  snore,  and 
I  don't  snore.  I 'm  glad,  are  n't  you ?  I've  known 
marriages  absolutely  wrecked — " 

This  was  going  a  little  too  fast,  thought  Bertha 
—  and  at  that  second  came  an  interruption.  She 
gazed  across  the  pond.  Her  brow  wrinkled,  her 
eyes  dilated. 

"Is  n't  that  —  oh,  dear,  yes,  it  is!  Here  comes  a 
policeman." 

Monk  followed  her  gaze.  "Yes,  it  is.  WTiat  of 
it?  He  does  n't  want  either  of  us,  does  he?" 


The  Caravan  Man  309 

"Yes,  he  does,"  answered  Bertha  tragically. 
"He's  after  me." 

"After  you!  Good  Heavens,  what's  he  after 
you  for?" 

"It's  about  my  clothes." 

"Your  clothes?" 

"Yes.  They're  not  mine.  I  —  I  —  got  them 
from  some  one  I  don't  know  —  Don't  let  him  come 
in  here ! "  She  closed  the  door. 

Monk,  considerably  bewildered,  attempted  an 
air  of  unconcern  that  merely  succeeded  in  pro 
claiming  at  a  hundred  yards  his  guilt  of  any 
thing  you  might  suspect  him  of.  The  policeman 
drew  near  and  eyed  him  with  official  criti 
cism. 

"  'Morning,"  he  said,  shortly  and  sternly. 

"Good-morning,  inspector,"  replied  Monk 
affably. 

"Any  other  caravan  about  here?"  queried  the 
policeman. 

"Not  as  far  as  I  know." 

"H'm."  The  constable  put  his  hand  among  his 
coat-tails  and  withdrew  a  notebook.  This  he 
opened,  moistened  a  pencil-tip  at  his  lips,  and  put 
the  question  to  Monk  in  his  sternest  official  man 
ner:  "Can  you  give  me  any  information  as  to  the 
whereabouts  of  some  missing  articles  of  female 
wearing  apparel?" 

Monk  temporized.    "My  good  man,  do  I  look 


3 1  o  The  Caravan  Man 

the  sort  of  man  to  know  anything  about  female 
wearing  apparel?" 

"Well,  yes,  you  do,"  came  the  constable's  can 
did  answer,  after  an  impartial  survey. 

"Then  you're  no  judge — and  what's  more, 
you're  a  silly  ass!"  Monk  said  sharply.  "Any 
how,  I'm  not  going  to  answer  any  more  of  your 
fat-headed  questions." 

"I'm  doing  my  dooty,  and  I  must  make  en 
quires." 

"Are  you  making  any  sort  of  charge  against 
me?"  demanded  Monk. 

"No,  sir.  Lady  Baddeley-Boulger,  of  Green 
Streets,  has  called  in  the  aid  of  the  force  in  the 
matter  of  the  whereabouts  of  some  missing  articles 
of  female  wearing  apparel."  He  read  out  the  items : 
"Cloak,  dress,  pair  of  shoes,  pair  of  stockings, 
pair  suspenders,  pair  corsets,  pair  —  the  rest  of 
the  kit.  Have  you  in  your  possession  any  or  all  of 
the  aforementioned  articles?" 

"  Search  me,"  returned  Monk. 

"Lady  Baddeley-Boulger  makes  no  charge  —  as 
yet.  She  only  wants  to  get  the  articles  back.  We  Ve 
questioned  her  maid  —  we  have  n't  got  to  the  bot 
tom  of  her  yet,  but  we  shall,  no  doubt  —  and  from 
what  we  got  out  of  her,  we  decided  that  we  might 
begin  by  making  enquiries  up  at  this  caravan." 

"Well,"  Monk  assured  him,  "I  don't  know  any 
thing  about  them." 


The  Caravan  Man  311 

"No  knowledge."  The  constable,  re- wetting  his 
pencil,  wrote  ponderously  in  his  notebook.  He 
put  the  book  away  among  the  recesses  of  his  coat- 
tails.  "Very  well  —  I'll  just  take  a  look  round 
inside  your  caravan." 

This  was  a" facer.  "Here!  No,  you  don't!  You 
just  keep  out  of  it!" 

The  constable  warned  him  sternly.  "Take  my 
advice.  Don't  interfere  with  me  in  the  execution 
of  my  dooty." 

"Your  duty — "  began  Monk,  stepping  in  front 
of  the  constable  and  feeling  like  Horatius  stalking 
forward  to  defend  the  -bridge.  The  constable 
advanced  stolidly. 

A  clash  seemed  inevitable,  when  a  voice  floated 
lightly  from  the  caravan's  interior:  — 

"Monkey,  have  you  got  any  brown  paper  handy?" 

"Who's  that?"  demanded  the  constable. 

"A  friend  of  mine,"  answered  Monk. 

"Who's  he  talking  to?" 

"Me." 

The  official  brow  darkened.  The  official  eye 
lowered  gloomily,  surveying  Monk  with  distrust 
and  suspicion. 

"What's  he  calling  you  a  monkey  for?  I  don't 
like  this.  I  begin  to  feel  there's  something  funny 
about  this  caravan.  Perhaps  this  chap  inside  can 
tell  me  something." 

"  I  assure  you  he  can't." 


312  The  Caravan  Man 

"We'll  ask  him."  The  constable  raised  his 
voice.  "Just  come  out  of  that,  young  feller." 

"Look  here,"  struck  in  Monk,  "I'm  not  going 
to  have  this." 

The  knight-errant  fit  of  the  evening  before  was 
now  in  full  blast  through  his  breast.  If  he  had 
but  had  a  sword! 

At  this  moment  a  diversion  occurred.  The 
caravan  door  opened,  and  Bertha  appeared  — 
but  not  the  Bertha  of  the  inadequate  frock.  This 
was  another  Bertha,  a  cool,  a  saucy,  a  quite-at- 
ease  Bertha,  dressed  in  the  garb  of  a  man  —  white 
flannel  trousers,  neatly  creased,  white  shirt,  dark- 
blue  jacket,  loose  collar,  flowing  tie,  her  hair 
tucked  well  away  under  a  hat  of  easy  and  erratic 
shape.  Her  hands  were  in  her  trousers  —  that  is, 
the  trousers  pockets,  and  under  her  arm  was 
tucked  a  bundle  of  washing  —  some  shirts,  an 
under-vest,  and  —  well  in  the  middle,  had  the 
policeman  but  known  it  —  the  articles  he  was 
questing  for,  tightly  screwed  up. 

Bertha  strolled  unconcernedly  down  the  steps. 
She  felt  that,  to  top  the  situation,  she  should  have 
been  lighting  a  cigarette  and  have  tossed  the 
match  away  artistically  as  she  descended.  But 
she  had  not  been  able  to  discover  any  cigarettes, 
and  she  knew  she  would  have  coughed  had  she 
attempted  to  smoke  one.  She  managed  without 
very  well.  Monk  nearly  laughed  outright. 


The  Caravan  Man  313 

She  addressed  Monk.  "Monkey,  what  about 
some  brown  paper  to  do  up  our  washing  in?" 

Before  Monk  could  answer,  the  constable  put 
his  poser.  "Can  you  give  me  any  information  as 
to  the  whereabouts  of  some  missing  articles  of 
female  wearing  apparel?"  The  pencil  and  notebook 
were  ready  for  operation. 

Bertha  surveyed  him  coolly.  "How  should  I 
know  anything  about  them?  All  I  can  say  is  that 
I  have  n't  got  'em  on." 

"Declared  he  had  not  got  them  on,"  noted  the 
pencil,  and  the  book  retired  again  to  its  modest 
obscurity. 

"Very  well,  young  man;  I'll  just  have  a  look 
round  inside." 

Bertha  stepped  aside;  the  constable  mounted 
the  steps  and  entered  the  caravan. 

Bertha  spoke  rapidly  to  Monk.  "Excuse  me 
calling  you  'Monkey' — but  I  didn't  know  what 
else  your  name  was.  I  dashed  into  these  things  of 
Mr.  Jones's.  I've  got  the  frock  and  things  here. 
Can't  we  do  them  up,  quick?  Is  there  any  brown 
paper  and  string  about  ? " 

Before  Monk  could  answer,  a  maid  in  a  black 
dress  and  white  apron,  with  cap  and  streamers, 
appeared.  She  bore  over  her  right  arm  a  blue 
evening  cloak,  and  in  her  left  hand  a  large  leather 
bag.  She  came  over  to  Bertha  and  Monk  and 
offered  these  articles,  with  the  remark:  — 


314  The  Caravan  Man 

"These  things  for  Mr.  Jones  —  from  the  Priory." 

"What  name?"  asked  Monk. 

"No  name.  I  was  just  to  leave  'em,  and  say, 
from  the  Priory." 

The  caravan  door  was  heard  opening.  Monk 
grasped  the  bag,  Bertha  the  cloak.  Monk  pitched 
the  bag  toward  the  caravan  wheel;  Bertha  made  an 
effort  to  tuck  the  cloak  up  the  front  of  her  jacket. 
Too  late!  The  lynx  eye  of  the  constable  had  taken 
in  something,  at  least,  of  the  incident.  He  came 
heavily,  but  swiftly  down  the  steps. 

"Hold  on  there!"  A  stride  brought  him  to 
Bertha.  He  seized  her  by  the  arm,  turned  her 
round,  and  pulled  out  the  cloak.  "Aha!  Where 'd 
this  come  from,  young  feller?"  He  held  it  up  in 
triumph. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Bertha  unconcernedly. 

"Don't  know!  What  d'ye  mean,  don't  know? 
You  know  what's  inside  your  jacket,  don't  you?" 

"Don't  be  rude,"  returned  Bertha  simply. 

"We  don't  know  where  it  came  from,"  said 
Monk.  "Really,  officer.  This  girl  brought  it. 
Perfect  stranger  to  me." 

"I  was  told  to  bring  it,"  explained  the  maid, 
"from  the  Priory." 

"Who  from?" 

"I  was  n't  to  say." 

The  constable  was  all  excitement.  "I  got  this," 
he  declared,  "but  I  ain't  going  to  leave  here  till 


The  Caravan  Man  315 

I  get  the  rest  of  the  things.  You  two"  —  to 
Bertha  and  Monk  —  "you  just  wait  here  with 
me;  and  you"  —  to  the  maid — "you  go  and  tell 
whoever  it  was  sent  you  they'd  better  come  here 
at  once.  Hop  it!" 

Scared  out  of  her  young  wits,  the  domestic 
flitted  away.  At  the  same  instant  Bamfield  rode 
up,  dismounted  from  his  bicycle,  and  approached 
the  group.  He  bore  a  square  suitcase  in  his  hand. 
The  constable  again  produced  the  notebook  and 
pencil. 

"  I  have  to  ask  you,"  he  flung  excitedly  at  Bam 
field,  "if  you  have  any  knowledge  of  some  missing 
female  whereabouts." 

Bamfield  dismissed  his  questioning  coldly.  "I 
am  not  interested  in  such  things." 

"I  mean,"  explained  the  constable,  "I  mean  the 
whereabouts  of  some  missing  females  — " 

"Find  the  missing  females,"  suggested  Bamfield, 
"and  you  will  inevitably  clear  up  any  mystery 
as  to  their  whereabouts." 

"I  mean  some  missing  female  apparatus  — 
apparel,  I  mean — " 

"Why  don't  you  say  some  women's  clothes?" 
struck  in  Bertha  impatiently.  "No,  he  does  n't." 

"What  about  this  cloak?"  The  constable  dan 
gled  Bertha's  evening  cloak  before  Bamfield's 
eyes.  "Any  knowledge?" 

The  limitations  of  Bamfield's  morality  proved 


3 1 6  The  Caravan  Man 

too  constricted  for  the  situation  and  demanded  a 
rapid  extension. 

"No,"lied  Bamfield,  without  a  second's  hesitation. 

But  the  hound  was  hot  on  the  trail,  with  the 
scent  breast-high. 

"I'll  trouble  you  for  that  suitcase." 

Bamfield  stepped  back,  with  the  case  behind 
him. 

"What  next?  It's  only  some  things  for  this  — 
—  this  —  gentleman."  He  indicated  Bertha. 

"I'll  trouble  you  to  let  me  look,  all  the  same." 
The  constable  grabbed  the  case,  fumbled  with  the 
catch,  opened  it  —  its  contents  tumbled  on  the 
grass.  "Aha!"  Light  at  last  —  the  quarry  run 
to  earth,  or,  rather,  pulled  down  in  the  open. 
"What 's  this  ? "  He  turned  the  items  over.  "  Frock, 
shoes,  stockings,  suspenders,  cor — " 

"Constable,"  said  Bamfield,  "I  give  you  my 
word  I  Ve  never  seen  these  things  before." 

"Well,  if  you  ain't  the  limit!" 

At  the  moment  Monk  chose  to  try  to  kick 
farther  under  the  caravan  the  bag  the  maid  had 
brought  from  the  Priory.  The  movement  caught 
the  constable's  eye.  In  a  second  he  had  pounced 
on  that  bag  also,  opened  it,  and  turned  out  its 
contents.  The  official  eye  blazed  with  mingled 
joy  and  bewilderment. 

"Hullo!"  Well,  I'm  dashed!  Frock,  shoes,  cor 
sets,  suspenders —  Any  knowledge?" 


The  Caravan  Man  317 

"None,"  answered  Monk.  "I  told  you  I  knew 
nothing  whatever  about  this  bag." 

Bertha,  incensed  at  the  constable's  rough-and- 
ready  handling  of  the  bag's  contents,  had  stepped 
forward,  and  on  her  in  turn,  and  the  bundle  under 
her  arm,  the  official  eye  now  lit. 

"That,  too!"  came  the  stern  demand.  The  par 
cel  was  unrolled.  "What?  More  of 'em  —  frock, 
shoes,  suspenders,  etsettra —  And  Lor'  lummy! 
What's  all  this?"  Bewildered,  incredulous,  he 
slowly  lifted  from  Bamfield's  extemporized  clothes 
line  the  pair  of  ruined  "whites"  and  the  still  sod 
den  clothes  bespoilt  by  Gubbins  the  night  before 
from  the  fugitive  Iffelstein. 

The  success  of  the  chase  was  now  positively  over 
whelming.  The  hunter,  hovering  distractedly  over 
his  three  bundles  of  "articles  of  female  wearing 
apparel,"  turned  appealingly  to  Monk,  Bertha,  and 
Bamfield,  in  turn. 

"Look  here,  young  gen'lemen,  what  is  the  game? 
I'm  asking,  not  merely  as  a  policeman,  but  as  a 


man." 


Bamfield  was  haughty.  "We've  no  informa 
tion.  You  can  make  a  charge  if  you  like;  we're 
not  going  to  run  away.  Besides,  you've  got  the 
things." 

"Oh,  yes,  I've  got  'em,  but  I've  got  a  lot  too 
many.  Which  is  which,  I  want  to  know." 

And  now,  to  this  little  group  at  cross-purposes 


3 1 8  The  Caravan  Man 

was  joined  another.  Old  Mrs.  Grampette  ap 
peared,  escorted  on  the  one  side  by  Miss  Gram 
pette,  on  the  other  by  Rose.  Slowly,  almost  sol 
emnly,  her  usual  vivacious  pace  now  resolved  into 
a  progress  of  great  dignity,  the  old  lady  led  the 
others  on.  Miss  Grampette  and  Rose  were  down 
cast. 

"Good-morning,  ladies."  The  constable  sa 
luted.  "I  understand  some  of  these  things"  —  he 
indicated  the  various  heaps  of  clothing  disposed 
about  the  caravan  —  "  came  from  the  Priory.  Do 
you  know  anything  about  them,  mum?"  to  old 
Mrs.  Grampette. 

"No,"  answered  the  Early  Victorian,  stoutly. 

"Do  you,  miss?"  He  turned  to  Miss  Gram 
pette. 

"No,"  answered  the  chairman  of  the  parish 
council,  with  a  touch  of  indecision  in  her  usually 
autocratic  voice. 

"Do  you,  miss?"  to  Rose. 

"Yes."  Rose  was  nervous,  but  truthful.  It  is 
not  necessary  to  enquire  what  other  members  of 
the  party  felt  the  lash  of  implied  reproach.  "Yes, " 
said  Rose.  "I  sent  these."  She  pointed  to  the 
heap  near  the  kitbag. 

"And  where  did  you  get  them,  may  I  ask?" 

"Out  of  my  aunt's  room." 

"Oh!"  Miss  Grampette  gave  a  gasp  and 
dropped  her  mother's  arm. 


The  Caravan  Man  319 

The  constable  addressed  Miss  Grampette 
gravely.  "  I  thought  you  did  n't  know  anything 
about  them?" 

Anne  Grampette  blushed.  "Perhaps  that  was 
n't  strictly  true,"  she  murmured. 

"And  where  did  you  get  them,  may  I  ask?" 

"  I  got  them  —  out  of  my  mother's  room." 

It  was  old  Mrs.  Grampette's  turn  to  look  em 
barrassed  now  —  but  she  declined.  Instead,  her 
shrivelled  form  stiffened  perceptibly  under  her 
crinoline,  and  she  faced  the  investigation  now 
pending  like  a  little  old  lioness,  lifting  such  a  look 
into  the  constable's  inquisitive  eye  that  he  blinked. 
Still,  he  did  his  duty  like  a  man  and  a  constable. 

"I  thought  you  didn't  know  anything  about 
them,  mum?" 

"That  —  that  was  —  an  evasive  answer.  I 
do."  She  brought  out  the  "I  do"  with  an  aggres 
siveness  that  seemed  to  say,  "By  some  incredible 
effort  of  stupidity  you  have  failed  to  grasp  the 
obvious  facts.  I  now  present  them  to  you  in  a 
manner  that  the  dullest  brain  cannot  fail  to  grasp." 

"May  I  ask  where  you  got  them?" 

"I  stole  them."  Mrs.  Grampette  was  at  her 
most  dignified  as  she  gave  this  simple  statement 
to  the  assembled  company. 

The  policeman  went  on:  "When?" 

"Last  night." 

Again  the  notebook  was  consulted.  "Last  night 


3  2  o  The  Caravan  Man 

—  that   agrees   with   information   previously   re 
ceived.  And  where?" 

"Here." 

The  notebook  shut  up.  "Excuse  me,  mum,  but 
Lady  Baddeley-Boulger  says  they  were  in  her 
wardrobe  yesterday  afternoon." 

"I  don't  care  what  Lady  Baddeley-Boulger  says. 
All  I  know  is  that  I  found  them  here  last  night, 
and  I  took  them." 

"Might  I  ask  you  for  a  little  further  informa 
tion,  mum?" 

Granny  looked  straight  in  front  of  her  and  gave 
off  the  facts  in  a  steady  stream  of  short,  business 
like  sentences. 

"I  came  here  last  night  —  just  before  bedtime. 
I  wanted  to  speak  to  this  gentleman."  She  waved 
a  queenly  hand  at  Bamfield,  who  bowed.  "I  saw 
his  fire  burning.  There  was  a  lady  here.  I  don't 
know  who  she  was.  My  word  —  her  dress!  In 
my  young  days  —  never  mind.  She  ran  away.  So 
did  he.  They  fell  in  the  pond.  They  got  out  again. 
They  were  in  a  mess.  Aha!"  A  pause  while  she 
dwelt  with  evident  pleasure  on  the  memory  of  the 
emergence  of  the  two  fugitives  from  the  pond.  "  I 
found  the  bag  and  the  cloak.  I  took  them.  I  don't 
know  why.  I  think  it  was  the  caravan  or  the  fire 

—  or  the  moonlight  —  perhaps  the  Chinese  lan 
tern.    It  —  they  —  got  into  my  blood.    I  had  to 
do  something  —  so  I  took  them." 


The  Caravan  Man  321 

Anne  Grampette  took  up  the  moving  tale  ner 
vously: — 

"My  mother  told  me  this  morning,  when  I 
went  into  her  room  of  her  having  appropriated 
the  things,  so  I  took  them  into  mine  before  break 
fast,  in  order  to  return  them." 

Rose's  turn  now.  All  turned  to  her:  — 

"  I  saw  my  aunt  take  the  things  out  of  my  grand 
mother's  room  and  put  them  into  hers,  before 
breakfast.  I  got  them  out  of  hers  into  mine,  after 
breakfast,  and  a  little  while  ago  I  sent  them  here." 

Well,  there  were  the  facts  —  and  what  was  an 
honest  constable  to  make  of  them?  He  pushed 
back  his  helmet  and  scratched  his  head,  very 
pardonably  puzzled. 

"Well,  ladies  —  'pon  my  word,  it's  a  bit  hard 
to  know  what  to  do." 

"Why  don't  you  take  the  things  back?"  sug 
gested  Bamfield.  "You've  got  'em." 

"Got  'em?  I  should  think  I  have.  Here's  a 
blooming  rummage  sale."  He  looked  at  his  cap 
tures.  "Hullo!"  He  sprang  to  sudden  action. 

However  satisfied  Miss  Bertha  Babbage  may 
have  been  with  the  success  of  her  hasty  robing  in 
Bamfield's  clothes,  the  state  of  affairs  had  com 
pletely  changed  with  the  advent  of  the  three 
other  women  from  the  Priory.  She  had  grown 
restless  during  the  constable's  questionings.  She 
whispered  to  Monk.  Monk  was  all  attention; 


322  The  Caravan  Man 

Bertha  waited  for  an  answer;  Monk  nodded; 
Bertha  edged  towards  the  suitcase  — 

The  constable  turned  just  in  time  to  see  Miss 
Babbage,  her  Sunday  clothes  hastily  and  reck 
lessly  huddled  into  the  suitcase  she  clasped  to  her 
waistcoat,  taking  rapid  leave  of  the  caravan. 
Where  exactly  Bertha  meant  to  go  she  had  not 
decided,  but  away  from  there  was  the  first  inten 
tion. 

Like  a  hound  at  his  quarry  —  a  rather  pon 
derous  and  slow-moving  hound  —  the  constable 
leapt.  "Hi!  Stop!  Here!  Come  back,  young  fel 
ler!"  Bertha  broke  into  a  run. 

Monk  was  ready.  As  the  constable  blundered 
past,  Monk's  fat  hand  descended  broadly  on  the 
officer's  helmet.  Obedient  to  the  impulse,  the  offi 
cial  casque  suddenly  descended  over  its  wearer's 
eyes  and  nose.  Blinded,  he  spun  round  three 
times,  hands  extended,  grasping  vainly. 

"Run!"  shouted  Monk,  and  ran  himself. 
Bertha's  classic  limbs  were  already  fast  bearing 
her  away  among  the  gorse.  Fatly  but  stout 
heartedly,  Monk  followed.  With  a  painful  effort 
the  constable  withdrew  his  visage  from  the  un 
yielding  helmet.  He  danced  after  the  fugitives, 
pulled  up  short,  looked  at  Bamfield,  came  back, 
again  started  in  the  chase  —  stopped  again,  looked 
as  helpless  as  he  felt,  raised  his  voice. 

"Stop  'em!"  —  there  was  no  one  to  stop  'em. 


The  Caravan  Man  323 

"'Ere,  you!"  to  Bamfield,  extending  a  white 
cotton-gloved  hand  in  warning.  "Don't  you  at 
tempt  to  go  away."  Three  more  steps  in  the 
direction  where  the  fugitives,  now  side  by  side, 
were  making  good  time,  then  another  pause.  "I 
shall  want  you."  A  gleam  of  inspiration.  "Arrest 
him,  ladies." 

"Nonsense,  officer,"  said  Anne  Grampette. 
"This  is  Lord  Bamfylde." 

The  officer  winced,  but  bore  the  impact  bravely. 
"Can't  help  that,"  he  said  sturdily.  "Keep  his 
lordship  for  me."  Lightly,  sprightly,  the  zest  of 
the  chase  again  speeding  his  limbs,  he  set  off.  Run, 
Bertha;  run, Monk!  For  here  comes  Duty,  eager, 
once  baulked,  fresh  fired  .  .  . 

Rose  stood  wondering.  She  had  heard  what 
her  aunt  said.  She  could  not  understand.  Had 
she  mistaken?  More  was  to  follow  in  the  same 
strain. 

Majestically  her  grandmother  swam  in  Barn- 
field's  direction.  "Really,  Lord  Bamfylde,  I 
apologize  for  the  officer,  but —  if  you  will  persist 
in  going  about  in  this  bohemian  fashion — "  She 
looked  arch. 

Rose  felt  a  singing  in  her  ears.  A  number  of 
things  seemed  to  be  explaining  themselves. 

Lord  Bamfylde!  She  looked  from  Bamfield  to 
her  grandmother,  to  Aunt  Anne,  back  to  Bamfield. 
"What  does  my  grandmother  mean,  Mr.  Jones?" 


324  The  Caravan  Man 

Very,  very  complacently  Aunt  Anne  gave  her 
the  Wondrous  Fact. 

"This  gentleman  is  Lord  Bamfylde,  Rose." 

Aunt  Anne  smiled,  Granny  smiled,  Bamfield 
looked  steadily  at  Rose.  No  question  of  her  sur 
prise.  Her  eyes  opened  wide  —  she  turned  rather 
white,  he  thought.  She  carried  a  little  bag  on  her 
wrist,  and  at  this  she  now  fingered,  her  head  droop 
ing.  She  came  over  to  him,  extended  her  hand.  He 
offered  his.  Two  half-crowns  dropped  into  his 
palm. 

"There's  your  five  shillings,"  said  Rose.  "I 
don't  want  the  photographs.  Good-morning. 
Come,  Granny." 

Bamfield's  knees  for  a  moment  almost  shook. 
He  was  dizzy.  If  Rose  had  planned  her  stroke  for 
effect  —  instead  of  being  merely  a  nervous  girl 
anxious  to  be  rid  of  a  miserable  business  —  she 
could  not  have  staggered  him  more  effectively. 

"But  —  but — "  stammered  Bamfield. 

"Now,  Rose!"  said  Granny. 

"  Rose ! "  —  expostulatory  —  came  from  Aunt 
Anne. 

Bamfield,  red  as  fire,  found  something  of  speech. 

"Do  you  mean  this?  Are  you  really  going  to 
treat  me  like  this?" 

Rose,  trembling,  flashed  at  him  from  under  lev 
elled  brows.  "Remember  last  night,"  she  said 
icily. 


The  Caravan  Man  325 

Bamfield's  nerve  was  steadying.  "What?  Just 
because  for  one  moment  I  lost  myself?  Oh,  come! 
I  asked  your  pardon." 

"You  did,"  she  answered  bitterly.  "And  you 
told  me  you  did  n't  care  a  snap  of  the  fingers  for 
any  other  woman." 

"I  know  I  did." 

"You  would  n't  turn  your  head,  you  said,  to 
look  at  any  one  else." 

"And  that's  true."  He  stepped  towards  her  as 
he  spoke,  and  the  words  came  hotly.  Love's  a 
queer  thing.  He  loved  her  passionately  at  that 
moment — and  felt  that  he  could  take  her  and 
shake  her. 

Rose's  feelings  were  rapidly  overpowering  her. 
Tears  were  not  far  away. 

"Oh,  how  can  you?  I  may  tell  you  that  I  came 
back  again  last  night  —  and  I  saw  —  you  know 
what  I  saw,"  turning  disdainfully  to  Bamfield. 

"What  did  you  see?"  he  demanded. 

"I  saw  you  —  bring  —  a  girl  —  out  of  your 
caravan.  I  could  n't  see  who  she  was,  but  I  heard 
what  she  said." 

"What  did  she  say?" 

"I'm  ashamed  to  repeat  it —  Oh,  very  well, 
then !  —  that  she  was  glad  no  one  could  see  her, 
and  you  said  it  would  be  all  right  —  no  one  had, 
and  if  she  kept  quiet,  no  one  would  know." 

Bamfield's  mind  jumped  back  hastily  to  that 


326  The  Caravan  Man 

minute  of  Bertha's  departure,  flashed  over  the 
incident,  and  saw  light. 

"Oh!"  he  almost  laughed,  "I  can  explain  that." 

"I  dare  say,  but  please  don't,"  said  Rose,  mis 
erably  indignant.  "I'm  ashamed,  I'm  degraded 
enough  as  it  is.  How  can  you !  I  thought  you  were 
so  different.  If  you  were  just  a  common  man,  as 
you  pretend,  it  would  be  bad  enough,  but  for  a 
man  in  your  position  to  go  about  as  you  do,  just 
to  pick  up  adventures,  I  suppose,  with  —  with 
fools  like —  like  me —  and  that  other  girl,  I  dare 
say —  it's  despicable!" 

Poor  girl.  The  tears  were  plain  to  see. 

Mrs.  Grampette  intervened.  "Rose,  come!  You 
must  make  allowances  for  a  man  in  his  lordship's 
position." 

Rose  flashed  out:  "I  don't  care  about  his  posi 
tion.  I  think  it  only  makes  his  conduct  worse.  I 
meant  to  forgive  you "  —  she  addressed  Bamfield 
again  —  "because  —  because  —  well,  I  could  n't 
think  badly  of  you.  But  I  thought  you  were  only 
a  photographer." 

"And  supposing  I'm  not?"  He  felt  his  heart 
glowing,  and  moved  a  little  towards  her.  She  gave 
no  ground,  but  faced  him,  hostile,  relentless.  "Miss 
Rose,  let  me  explain." 

"Let  his  lordship  speak,  Rose,"  put  in  Granny, 
a  trifle  anxious.  Rose  was  making  herself  a  very 
stupid  girl. 


The  Caravan  Man  327 

"I  don't  want  to  speak  to  you  at  all,"  said  Rose, 
unhappy,  but  never  flinching. 

He  was  peremptory.  "You  must.  Come,  Rose; 
let  me  speak  to  you.  I  beg  it.  Tell  me  something, 
and  I'll  tell  you  something.  Why  did  you  come 
back  to  the  caravan  last  night?" 

She  went  crimson.  Her  voice  was  unsteady  as 
she  answered.  "  I  expect  you  know." 

"  I  '11  give  a  guess,"  said  Bamfield.  All  was  well, 
he  felt.  "And  I  was  just  Jones  the  photographer? 
Yes?  And  you  don't  like  the  idea  of  my  being 
LordBamfylde?" 

For  the  first  time  she  dropped  her  eyes  and  spoke 
to  the  ground.  "I  —  I  liked  you  when  you  were 
Mr.  Jones." 

He  laughed  outright.  "Well,  then,  you've  got 
to  listen  to  me.  Yes"  —  as  she  lifted  a  shoulder  — 
"I  insist." 

"That's  the  way,  my  lord,"  said  Granny.  "Rose 
needs  a  master." 

She  beamed  on  the  two.  Rose  held  her  head 
high,  stubbornness  personified,  staring  past  him. 

"Thank  you,  Mrs.  Grampette.  You'll  listen, 
too,  I  hope,  and  you,  too,  Miss  Grampette."  There 
was  n't  a  doubt  of  that  —  both  the  older  ladies 
were  all  ears.  Rose's  attitude  expressed  nothing 
but  high  disdain.  Bamfield  felt  that  the  supreme 
moment  of  his  life  had  come.  "Listen,  Rose  — 
I'm  not  Lord  Bamfylde." 


328  The  Caravan  Man 

All  three  ladies  started.  Rose  condescended  at 
last  to  look  at  him;  Mrs.  Grampette  and  Aunt 
Anne  turned  hot  —  and  cold.  They  stared  at  one 
another.  Aunt  Anne's  mouth  opened,  but  no  voice 
came  through  its  grim  portals. 

Granny  found  her  tongue.  "  But  —  bu —  bu  - — 
my  daughter  Emma,  at  Brighton,  says  you  are." 

"Your  daughter  Emma,  at  Brighton,  is  entirely 
mistaken,"  Bamfield  assured  her  gravely.  He  was 
looking  at  Rose,  who  was  staring  at  him,  her 
breath  coming  rapidly. 

Aunt  Anne  was  ready  now.  "But  you  as  good 
as  admitted  to  me,  yesterday  afternoon,  that  your 
name  was  Bamfylde  —  and  I  thought  you  must 
be  Lord  Bamfylde."  She  glared  at  him;  she 
grasped  her  walking-stick  tightly  —  so  tightly  that 
Bamfield  kept  half  a  wary  eye  on  it.  Aunt  Anne 
most  plainly  had  a  temper,  and  there  was  no 
knowing  —  "Why —  and  you  knew  I  thought  so! 
You  deliberately  let  me  think  so ! " 

Bamfield  admitted  it  cheerfully.  "I  really  did  n't 
care  what  you  thought,  so  long  as  I  got  a  chance 
of  speaking  to  Miss  Rose." 

Aunt  Anne  let  herself  go.  The  man's  insolence 
was  unblushing  and  avowed.  "But  this  is  abom 
inable!  You  mean  to  say  you  came  to  the  Priory 
under  the  assumed  name  of  Jones  —  when  it  was 
your  real  name  all  the  time  —  or  something  just 
as  bad  —  Smith,  I  should  n't  wonder"  —  Bamfield 


"I  — I  LIKED  YOU  WHEN  YOU  WERE 
MR.  JONES" 


The  Caravan  Man  329 

should  have  withered,  but  missed  his  cue  and  stood 
there  alive  and  whole  —  "  and  photoed  our  Early 
Norman  architecture!" 

Granny  took  up  the  moving  tale.  "  I  shall  write/* 
she  announced  Impressively,  "I  shall  write  to  my 
daughter  Emma,  at  Brighton,  this  very  day  and 
tell  her  all  about  you,  you  deceitful  man  —  and 
your  unblushing  profligacy  —  that  woman  —  last 
night  —  and  your  wretched  camera  —  Tcha !  I  'm 
glad  you  both  fell  in  the  pond!  Aha!" 

Anne  took  charge  in  brisk  and  businesslike  style. 
"We'd  better  put  an  end  to  this  at  once.  Rose,  get 
off  home.  And  you  —  I  Ve  warned  you  before  — 
move  your  caravan  off  our  common!" 

The  angel  with  the  flaming  sword  could  not  have 
seen  Adam  and  Eve  off  the  premises  at  Eden  with 
more  determination  than  did  Aunt  Anne  pronounce 
the  parting  between  Rose  and  Bamfield.  Bamfield, 
delighted  with  his  mastery  of  the  whole  situation, 
as  developed  so  far  and  still  to  unfold,  could  afford, 
he  felt,  to  be  politeness  itself. 

"Won't  you  let  me  explain?"  he  asked. 

"I  will  not.  What  your  game  is  I  don't  know, 
but  one  can  suppose — "  She  paused.  At  the  mo 
ment  she  did  not  suppose  anything  very  clearly. 

"Can  suppose?"  hinted  Bamfield. 

"Tli at  you  had  the  very  worst  of  motives. 
Money,  I  have  no  doubt,  was  what  you  were 
after." 


3  3  o  The  Caravan  Man 

The  shaft  glanced  from  Bamfield's  marble  front, 
but  Rose  broke  in  indignantly:  "Aunt  Anne,  that's 
not  fair!  It  was  our  fault." 

Aunt  Anne  was  lofty.  "Hold  your  tongue,  miss! 
You  Ve  helped  to  fool  us  —  philandering  about  in 
this  man's  caravan  at  all  hours  — " 

"I've  done  nothing  wrong!"  Rose  expostulated. 

Anne  surveyed  her  coldly  and  cruelly.  "I  sup 
pose  we  must  take  your  word  for  that." 

Bamfield  flushed  darkly;  Rose  turned  white; 
even  Granny  had  to  remonstrate. 

"Anne!" 

Anne  refused  to  retreat,  though  she  had  the 
grace  to  avoid  Bamfield's  glance  as  Rose  clasped 
her  hands  before  her  breast. 

"Oh,  don't  let's  be  finicking!  She's  her  mother 
over  again!" 

That  hit  Rose  where  to  pain  her  was  easiest. 
She  spoke  with  trembling  lips:  "Let  my  mother 
alone!" 

All  the  intensity  of  loyalty  in  her  nature  surged 
up  in  the  protest.  Bamfield  caught  its  accent  and 
longed  to  kiss  her  hands  for  it.  Granny  endeav 
oured  to  put  an  end  to  the  scene. 

"Come  home,  Rose,"  she  said,  holding  out  her 
hand. 

Rose  ignored  it.  "I'm  going  to  speak  to  Mr. 
Jones  first,"  she  said  steadily.  It  was  flat  rebellion, 
she  knew,  but  from  the  moment  Aunt  Anne  had 


The  Caravan  Man  331 

attacked  Bamfield  so  outrageously,  her  mind  had 
been  made  up.  She  was  a  rebel. 

"You'll  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  said  Granny 
sternly. 

"I  will.  I'm  not  a  child,  Granny.  I  must — I  will!" 

But  Granny  was  inexorable.  "You  can  speak 
to  him  when  he  comes  out  of  prison." 

Bamfield  burst  into  laughter,  Rose  winced, 
Granny  bridled,  Aunt  Anne  gripped  her  stick. 
Bamfield,  feeling  the  moment  for  complete,  and, 
he  felt,  triumphant,  explanation  had  arrived, 
sought  momentarily  for  the  right  words  for  an 
effective  opening —  an  exasperating  delay  promptly 
forestalled  him. 

Pumped  —  that  is  the  elegantly  descriptive 
word  —  as  never  surely  were  man  and  woman 
pumped  before,  Bertha  Babbage  and  Monk  stag 
gered  in  among  the  group,  burst  through  it,  stum 
bled  up  the  steps  of  the  caravan;  Bertha  entered, 
Monk  followed,  bearing  bravely  the  suitcase  that 
Bertha  had  carried  when  first  their  race  with  the 
Law  commenced;  and  the  two  halves  of  the  door 
slammed  to. 

Equally  pumped,  speechless,  perspiring,  gasping, 
the  Law  followed,  ten  paces  behind.  It  reached 
the  caravan,  swayed,  recovered,  toiled  up  the  steps, 
leant  heavily  against  the  door.  The  door  held 
tight.  The  constable  sat  down  on  the  narrow  front 
platform,  and  panted,  and  panted,  and  panted  — 


332  The  Caravan  Man 

The  little  window  to  the  right  of  the  door  opened. 
Monk  thrust  his  head  out,  and  panted,  and  panted, 
and  panted. 

The  constable  heard  that  laboured  breathing. 
He  turned  a  blurred  eye  upwards,  saw  his  quarry, 
escaped,  yet  held.  Faintly  he  beckoned  to  Bamfield. 

"My  lord,"  he  said,  "give  us  a  hand." 

Aunt  Anne's  voice  at  its  very  harshest  disclosed 
the  new  state  of  affairs.  "Lord  Bamfylde!"  she 
snorted,  contemptuously.  "He's  not  a  lord  —  he's 
a  rank  impostor.  Constable,  lock  him  up!" 

"  Certainly,  Miss  Grampette,  but  I  dunno'  Jow, 
just  now.  I've  got  my  hands  full.  My  lord,  or 
young  feller,  or  whatever  you  are,  just  you  wait 
here.  'Ullo,  'ere's  'elp!" 

The  constable  might  call  it  'elp,  this  strange 
thing  that  now  came  forward  from  among  the  trees, 
but  at  first  glance  its  outward  appearance  suggested 
more  the  need  than  the  loan  of  assistance. 

It  was  a  little  man,  with  a  large  nose  and  an 
Oriental  aspect  of  face.  It  was  fantastically  dressed 
in  a  suit  of  clothes  from  which  all  colour  was  so 
conspicuously  absent  that  you  surmised  at  once  a 
suit  of  mourning.  This  suit  was  miles  too  large  for 
it.  The  trousers  crinkled  down  in  most  ungracious 
creases  over  its  boots,  its  coat  hung  in  elephantine 
folds  about  its  diminutive  torso,  and  on  its  head  a 
top-hat,  draped  with  a  voluminous  scarf  of  crape, 
rested  firmly  down  on  its  ears  and  eyebrows.  A 


The  Caravan  Man  333 

grin  lit  up  Bamfield's  face,  and  from  the  caravan 
came  a  joyous  gasp  from  Monk. 

"God  bless  my  soul!  It's  old  Iffy!  Hullo,  Iffy!" 

Mr.  lifelstein  shambled  forward.  He  moved 
with  caution.  In  addition  to  the  outrageous  want 
of  fit  in  his  clothes  was  the  fact  that  he  had  no 
braces.  Even  Gubbins  had  had  sense  enough  the 
previous  night  to  remove  the  braces  from  the  suit 
he  had  decorated  his  scarecrow  with. 

He  halted  near  Bamfield.  "Good-morning,"  he 
said. 

Bamfield  endeavoured  to  compose  his  features. 
"Still  alive,  then?"  he  answered  politely. 

tffelstein  drew  a  deep  breath.  "You  nearly 
finished  me  last  night." 

This  sounded  promising.  The  policeman  got  on 
his  feet,  felt  in  the  recesses  of  his  coat-tails  for  his 
notebook.  "You  know  this  man,  sir?" 

Iffelstein  turned  to  survey  his  questioner.  "  Know 
him !  Have  n't  I  been  chasing  after  him  for  the 
last  six  months?  And  last  night,  when  I  got  him, 
he  tried  to  drown  me." 

A  thrill  ran  through  all,  or  nearly  all,  there. 

Granny  spoke  to  Iffelstein.  The  old  lady  was 
still  vicious.  "Oh,  you're  after  him,  are  you?  Is 
he  known  to  you  as  Lord  Bamfylde?" 

"Certainly  not,"  said  Iffelstein,  puzzled. 

"Is  his  name  Jones?"  asked  Aunt  Anne. 

"Certainly  not,  madam." 


334  The  Caravan  Man 

"But  you've  got  him  now,"  said  Granny.  "Has 
he  done  anything?" 

"Yes,  madam  —  but  nothing  to  what  we  expect 
him  to  do  before  he  dies." 

All  eyes  were  on  Bamfield. 

Something  moved  Rose  to  lean  towards  him. 
"What  have  you  done?"  she  asked  in  a  low  voice. 

"Nothing,"  Bamfield  assured  her  lightly,  but 
impatiently.  He  wanted  this  lot  of  fools  out  of  the 
way.  There  was  Rose,  his  Rose  he  told  himself, 
and  all  that  was  necessary  now  was  the  chance  to 
speak  a  dozen  words. 

"I  can't  have  any  talking  to  this  man  Jones," 
declared  the  constable. 

"I'm  not  Jones,"  declared  Bamfield,  his  temper 
beginning  to  rise. 

"Why,"said  Granny,  "you  just  said  you  were." 

"It's  merely  a  name  I  go  by." 

"Ah!"  (The  constable,  notebook  open.)  "Alias 
Jones,  eh?" 

"No,  you  fathead." 

"What  is  your  name,  then?"  The  question  came 
simultaneously  from  (i)  Mrs.  Grampette,  (2)  Aunt 
Anne,  (3)  the  constable. 

"Bamfield." 

"  But  you  just  said  it  was  n't,"  expostulated  Mrs. 
Grampette. 

Aunt  Anne  gave  an  unpleasant  little  laugh.  "I 
don't  believe  he  knows  what  his  name  is." 


The  Caravan  Man  335 

Bamfield  made  one  more  tremendous  effort  to 
control  the  situation.  "Kindly  allow  me  to  ex 
plain." 

The  constable  snapped  his  book  away.  "You 
explain  to  the  magistrate.  'Ere,  come  along." 

"What,  leaving  us  so  soon?"  asked  Monk  de 
risively  from  the  window. 

"I'll  get  'elp."  From  among  the  constable's 
breast-buttons  his  white  cotton  gloves  extracted  a 
whistle,  and  the  next  instant  a  piercing  shrilling 
began  to  startle  the  yellowhammers  in  the  gorse. 

At  its  second  shriek  another  head  appeared,  lean 
ing  out  of  the  other  caravan  window,  a  lady's 
head  .  .  . 

"Stop  that  noise,"  it  commanded. 

All  stared.  Iffelstein  was  the  first  to  speak.  "Ex 
cuse  me,  young  lady,  but  have  you  got  my  hat?" 

Bertha  stared  at  him.  "I  don't  know  you." 

"You  don't  know  this  lady,  Iffelstein,"  said 
Bamfield. 

"  Don't  I  ?  Seeing  we  slept  together  last  night — " 

"Oh!"  ejaculated  Bertha  —  and  can  you  blame 
her? 

"Don't  misunderstand  me,  miss,  but  we  slept 
in  the  barn  together — "  ; 

She  divined  the  truth.  She  leant  a  little  farther 
out  of  the  window,  and  addressed  herself  to  Monk. 
"The  man  that  snored!"  she  said. 

"That's  the  beggar,"  rejoined  Monk. 


3  3  6  The  Caravan  Man 

Plainly  there  was  matter  here  for  relation.  Barn- 
field  felt  they  might  as  well  have  it.  The  atmos 
phere  was  turgid,  unsettled  —  give  it  time  to  fine 
down. 

"What's  all  this  about,  Iffelstein?"  he  asked. 

And  Mr.  Iffelstein  told  them,  in  a  voice  of  gentle 
melancholy. 

He  was  an  expressive  speaker,  given  to  gesture. 
Bear  in  mind  his  hat,  his  trousers  (unbraced),  and 
the  fact  that  the  sleeves  of  the  coat  he  wore  came 
well  down  beyond  his  finger-tips,  and  you  may 
enjoy  something  of  the  humour  the  others  found 
not  only  in  the  matter  but  the  manner  of  his 
story-telling. 

"You  see,  when  I  left  here  last  night  I  lost  my 
way,  and  then  I  saw  a  gentleman  standing  in  a 
field  looking  at  the  moon.  So  I  went  up  to  him  and 
I  said"  —  Here,  unconsciously  mimetic,  he  took 
off  his  streamered  top-hat  in  an  explanatory  ges 
ture —  "'Can  you  tell  me  the  way  to  Ouseton?' 
And  when  he  did  n't  answer  I  saw  he  was  a  scare 
crow.  So  I  said"  —  again  a  wave  of  the  top-hat  — 
" '  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  thought  you  were  a  man/  " 

Bamfield,  choking,  looked  at  Rose.  Alas!  all  this 
was  savourless  to  her.  Her  eyes  fixed  mournfully 
on  Bamfield,  she  heard  nothing  of  Iffelstein. 

"And  then,"  went  on  that  gentleman,  "I  saw 
he  had  on  this  suit."  He  extended  his  arms  sud 
denly.  Immediately  —  fortunately  beneath  his 


The  Caravan  Man  337 

coat  —  his  trousers  commenced  a  rapid  descent 
towards  his  boots.  He  stopped  them  with  a  con 
vulsive  grab,  hitched  them  up,  and  proceeded,  with 
more  of  restraint  in  his  illustrative  gesticulation. 

"You  can  laugh"  —  most  unmannerly,  they 
were  laughing — "but  at  any  rate  it  was  dry  — 
and  that  was  something.  So  I  undressed,  and  then 
a  man  came  running  at  me,  with  a  stick,  when  I  'd 
got  nothing  on  but  my  boots  and  socks — and  my 
hat." 

"Did  you  explain?"  asked  Granny. 

"  I  was  going  to,  madam,  but  he  had  a  stick,  so 
I  just  grabbed  up  the  things  I  'd  got  off  the  scare 
crow,  and  ran.  He  struck  me,"  said  Mr.  Iffelstein, 
a  tremor  at  the  recollection  in  his  voice,  "  severely. 
I  cannot  get  to  see  the  place,  but  I  know  there's  a 
shocking  bruise." 

The  constable  began  to  lick  his  lips.  Why  had 
n't  he  taken  all  this  down?  He  got  his  notebook 
out  again. 

"Well,  I  got  away,  but  I  left  my  own  clothes 
behind,  with  my  money  in.  What  was  I  to  do? 
Well,  I  found  a  barn  full  of  hay,  and  I  went  in,  and 
tucked  myself  up  in  the  darkest  corner,  and  then 
this  young  lady  came  in"  —  he  waved  a  coat-cuff 
at  Bertha,  who  looked  at  Monk. 

"Why  didn't  you  come  out?"  asked  Mrs. 
Grampette. 

"I  could  n't." 


3  3  8  The  Caravan  Man 

"Why  not?" 

"I  had  n't  got  any  clothes  on,"  explained  Iff  el- 
stein  with  simplicity  and  evident  truth.  "I  did  n't 
want  to  put  this  suit  on  while  I  was  all  wet,  and  I 
was  warm  enough  in  the  hay,  so  I  hung  the  clothes 
up  beside  me  in  the  dark,  and  the  young  lady  took 
off  her  shoes  and  stockings,  and  she  lay  down;  and 
then  you  came  in"  —  he  waved  his  other  coat- 
cuff  at  Monk. 

"I  did  n't  see  you,"  said  Monk. 

"  I  did  n't  want  anybody  to  see  me.  Well,  I  fell 
asleep,  and  when  I  woke  the  barn  was  empty.  My 
things  were  there  all  right,  except  my  own  hat 
and  I  thought  if  that  had  dropped  down  in  the 
night  it  might  have  rolled  somewhere  near  the 
young  lady,  and  she  might  have  taken  it  away — " 

"I  suppose  I  did,"  interrupted  Bertha.  "I  was 
n't  awake  properly  when  I  got  up." 

"Can  I  have  it  miss?"  asked  Iffelstein  anxiously. 

Bertha  looked  at  him  viciously.  "  Can  you  have 
it?  Just  you  wait  a  minute."  Both  the  heads 
withdrew  from  the  caravan  windows,  the  door 
opened,  and  Monk  and  Bertha  came  rapidly  down 
the  steps.  Bertha  looked  well  in  her  best  coat  and 
skirt. 

"Hullo!"  said  the  constable  in  amazement, 
"where  did  you  spring  from?" 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  said  Mrs.  Gram- 
pette,  scandalized,  "that  you've  been  undressing 


The  Caravan  Man  339 

and  dressing  again  in  that  caravan  — with  that 
man  there?'* 

Monk  laid  his  hand  to  his  heart.  "I  call  all 
here  to  witness,"  he  said,  "that  I've  stood  with 
my  head  out  of  the  window  all  the  while." 

Bertha  looked  at  Granny  as  much  as  to  say, 
"There  you've  got  your  answer,"  and  faced  Iffel- 
stein  darkly.  "  So  you  're  the  man,  are  you  ?  Take 
your  old  hat,  you  nasty,  noisy  thing!"  She  threw 
it  at  him.  He  picked  it  up. 

Monk  stalked  threateningly  over  to  the  little 
man.  "Who  the  deuce  do  you  think  you  are,  go 
ing  about  snoring  and  snorting  all  over  the  first 
barn  you  come  across  as  if  you  owned  the  earth ! " 

Bertha's  indignation  when  first  Monk  brought 
forward  the  suggestion  that  she  was  capable  of 
anything  so  indecorous  as  sleeping  audibly  was 
nothing  to  Iffelstein's.  A  tempest  of  wrath,  in 
credulity,  disdain,  swept  across  his  face.  "SNORE  !" 
he  thundered,  in  a  temendous  voice.  "SNORE! 
Me — SNORE!"  —  Monk  simply  dared  not  repeat 
the  accusation. 

The  constable  brought  everything  back  onto 
business  lines.  He  was  busy  with  his  notebook 
and  pencil.  "Well,  sir,"  he  asked  Iffelstein,  "what's 
the  charge?" 

"Charge?  —  What  d'  you  mean,  charge?" 

"Ain't  you  charging  any  one  with  anything, 
sir?" 


34-O  The  Caravan  Man 

"Me?  Certainly  not." 

The  constable  felt  faint.  A  moment  ago  visions 
of  Important  Cases,  more  than  one,  had  seemed 
such  certainties.  He  had  heard  voices  inside  his 
helmet.  "In  sentencing  the  prisoner  to  seven 
years'  penal  servitude,  the  Judge  said  he  felt  it  no 
more  than  his  duty  to  draw  the  attention  of  the 
proper  authorities  to  the  admirable  and  highly 
intelligent  way  in  which  the  difficult  matter  of  the 
arrest  of  the  criminal  had  been  carried  out  by 
Police  Con—" 

He  jerked  himself  back  to  present  life  and  its 
affairs.  Looking  round  him:  "What,  ain't  no  one 
going  to  charge  nobody  with  nothing?" 

He  gave  them  ample  time,  letting  his  glance 
travel  slowly  over  the  group  as  searchingly  as  an 
auctioneer  surveys  a  crowd  of  slow  bidders,  seek 
ing  to  elicit,  to  draw,  to  extract,  to  induce  —  Use 
less.  All  remained  silent.  More,  they  looked  him 
over  coldly,  hostilely.  He  felt  he  had  no  single 
friend  there.  Sadly,  slowly,  with  hand  that  trem 
bled,  he  put  his  notebook  in  its  place  of  conceal 
ment. 

"Can  any  one  tell  me,"  he  appealed,  "what  I'm 
going  to  do?" 

"Certainly."  Bamfield  spoke  cheerfully  and 
decidedly.  "Officer,  these  are  the  'Missing  Fe 
male  Wearing  Apparel/  Take  the  lot  down  to 
Lady  Boulger's  and  return  them,  and  take  every- 


The  Caravan  Man  341 

body  here  who  had  a  hand  in  removing  them  from 
her  lawful  custody." 

"Oh,  no!"  said  Bertha,  shrinking.  "I  don't 
want  to  see  Lady  Boulger." 

"Nonsense,  Bertha,"  said  Monk,  "let's  face 
it.  'Hand  in  hand  together,  love/  Come  along, 
officer;  come  on,  ladies." 

"  I  'm  not  going,"  said  Mrs.  Grampette,  with  a 
touch  of  timidity. 

"You'd  better,  madam,"  advised  Bamfield. 
"It's  always  better  to  get  these  things  explained 
and  done  with." 

"Well,  I  shan't,"  said  Aunt  Anne. 

"Perhaps  you  had  better  not,"  said  Bamfield, 
"since  you  admit  receiving  the  purloined  prop 
erty." 

Aunt  Anne  prepared  to  go  immediately. 

"What  about  you?"  queried  the  constable. 

Bamfield  went  to  his  loftiest.  "I  am  prepared 
to  allow  the  whole  case  to  drop,  as  far  as  I  am 
concerned."  He  managed  to  convey  the  idea  that 
he  was  conceding  a  good  deal  in  very  handsome 
fashion. 

"You,  miss?"  The  constable  turned  to  Rose. 

"This  lady,"  struck  in  Bamfield  hastily,  "who 
only  returned  the  Missing  Apparel,  has  no  inten 
tion  of  laying  claim  to  any  reward." 

"You  sir?"  This  time  to  Iffelstein. 

"Nothing  to  do  with  me,"  said  Mr.  Iffelstein. 


342  The  Caravan  Man 

"  I  see  my  clothes  here,  and  I  'm  going  to  stay  and 
put  'em  on." 

"No,  you're  not,"  broke  in  Bamfield.  "I  won't 
have  you  here.  Take  him  along,  officer." 

Once  again  the  constable's  spirits  soared.  "  Cer 
tainly,  sir.  What's  the  charge?" 

Bamfield  considered.  "I  leave  it  to  you,  con 
stable." 

Iffelstein  suddenly  turned  nasty.  "Well,  what's 
the  charge?  You  want  to  get  rid  of  me,  but  I'm 
not  going.  I've  been  disgracefully  treated.  I've 
been  shoved  into  that  beastly  pond,  and  left  to 
wallop  about  in  the  dark;  I've  been  chased  about 
the  fields  with  nothing  on,  and  struck  with  a  stick; 
I  Ve  had  to  sleep  in  a  barn  all  night  and  got  a  chill 
on  my  lungs;  and  I've  lost  my  purse  and  my  sea 
son  ticket.  And  now  you  talk  about  charging  me — 
me,  mind  you !  I  'd  like  to  see  some  one  charge  me." 

He  held  the  cards.  LHe  towered  high  —  and 
toppled. 

"Hold  *im!"  said  a  loud  voice.  Mr.  Gubbins 
shot  out  from  the  trees.  "That's  'im."  He 
reached  the  group.  "So,  you're  the  brasted  thief 
that  coom  and  robbed  my  scarecrow,  are  ye? 
W'eer  's  my  gold  watch  —  eh  ?  my  gamfer's  gold 
watch?" 

He  plunged  at  Iffelstein,  who  backed  round  the 
constable.  Gubbins  nipped  round  the  other  way 
and  caught  him;  Iffelstein  wrestled  and  resisted, 


The  Caravan  Man  343 

but  Gubbins  held  him  firm,  swung  him  over  his 
knee,  and  plunging  his  hand  at  him  pulled  from 
out  of  the  breast  pocket  of  the  coat  a  watch  the 
size  of  a  man's  fist  and  a  ropey  chain. 

Iffelstein  burst  into  tears.  "I  don't  know  any 
thing  about  it.  I  did  n't  know  it  was  there.  Offi 
cer—" 

The  constable  felt  on  firm  ground  at  last.  "You 
charge  him,  Jarge  Gubbins?" 

"Charge  'im?  —  'Course  I  charge  rim." 

"Then,  come  on!"  Iffelstein  felt  the  police 
man's  hand  descend  on  him,  felt  himself  lost,  and 
prepared  to  obey  orders.  The  constable  motioned 
to  his  flock.  "Go  ahead,  Jarge  Gubbins.  I  'ave 
the  prisoner.  Ladies,  this  way.  You,  sir?  — 
you're  a-coming?" 

"Certainly,"  said  Monk  promptly. 

"Then  might  I  arst  you  to  be  so  good  as  to 
carry  the  Missing  Female  Wearing  Apparel,  sir?" 

"With  pleasure,  officer."  Monk  grabbed  the 
bedraggled  bundle. 

Bertha  turned  her  head  from  it  as  if  the  sight 
of  it  brought  her  qualms  unbearable;  the  group 
began  to  resolve  itself  into  a  straggling  line,  at  the 
head  of  which  marched  Mr.  Jarge  Gubbins. 

Granny  turned  to  Rose.  "Rose,  go  straight 
home,  and  have  nothing  to  say  to  this  man  Jones." 

"No,  Granny,"  Rose  answered. 

Anne  Grampette  took  her  mother's  arm.    She 


344  The  Caravan  Man 

caught  Bamfield's  eye.  "  Shall  I  tell  you,"  she  asked 
acidly,  "what  I  think  of  you?" 

He  gave  her  his  politest.  "Don't.  I'm  con 
ceited  enough  already." 

She  opened  her  mouth,  shut  it  again,  and  es 
corted  Granny  after  the  others. 

"Now,  Rose,"  said  Bamfield. 

She  was  walking  slowly  away,  but  at  his  voice 
she  stopped,  looked  at  him,  then  looked  away 
again.  It  was  hard  to  begin,  and  all  this  confusion 
made  it  harder.  Still,  she  would  do  it. 

"I  want  to  tell  you,"  she  said  at  last,  in  a  low 
voice.  "I'm  an  impostor,  too." 

"An  impostor!  Whatever  do  you  mean?" 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  his.  "I've  told  you  I 
came  back  last  night.  I  must  tell  you  why.  After 
I  got  home,  I  felt  so  strange.  I  was  angry,  I  could 
n't  bear  to  think  of  you,  yet  I  did,  and  after  a  time 
I  was  n't  angry  any  more.  I  wondered  what  had 
happened  to  me  —  to  us  both  —  and  then  I  saw 
it  was  the  night  —  and  the  caravan  —  and  the 
fire  —  and  being  together  —  and  — " 

"Yes?" 

"Well,  that  —  all  those  things  —  had  made 
you  want  me.  Was  n't  it  so?"  .  '  '  : 

"Those  things  —  yes;  and  something  else," 
said  Bamfield  softly. 

"And  suddenly  I  wanted  you."  She  got  it  out, 
with  burning  cheeks. 


The  Caravan  Man  345 

"Did  you,  you  darling?" 

"Don't!  Somehow,  talking  as  we  did  —  as  you 
did  —  perhaps  speaking  of  the  old  studio  of  Prim 
rose  Hill,  all  the  old  life  seemed  to  come  back.  I 
thought  of  my  father,  and  men  friends  of  his  that 
used  to  come  in  sometimes  to  see  him  —  mostly 
old,  but  somehow  you  seemed  to  be  one  of  them. 
And  you  were  going  away  soon,  of  course,  and  — 
and—" 

"What  was  it,  dear?" 

"I  felt  suddenly  as  if  you  were  a  ship  sailing 
away  and  leaving  me  all  alone  on  an  island,  and  I 
could  n't  bear  it,  and  so  I  came  back  again  with 
out  any  one  knowing.  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you 
again." 

"You  wanted  me?" 

"Yes.  Ah,  but  wait!"  as  he  took  a  sudden  step 
towards  her,  his  hands  outstretched.  She  put  her 
hand  out  to  keep  him  back;  he  caught  it  and  held 
it,  but  she  kept  him  at  arm's  length.  "Wait  — 
let  me  tell  you  why.  I  thought,  'There's  magic  in 
the  air.  He's  under  the  spell  —  he's  not  sure  of 
himself.  It's  the  night  and  the  strangeness  that 
move  him,  give  me  power  over  him  —  and  if  I 
go  to  him  now — '  Oh,  can't  you  see?  I  was  just 
a  common  woman,  playing  a  common  woman's 
trick  —  trying  to  catch  a  man ! " 

She  passed  her  free  hand  over  her  shamed  face, 
then  looked  at  him  more  boldly,  as  if,  with  her 


346  The  Caravan  Man 

pitiful  little  confession,  she  had  found  fresh  cour 
age.  Bamfield  was  too  absorbed  with  the  beauty 
of  her  to  speak.  He  could  only  stare. 

"Now  you  know.  I  felt  at  first  I  could  n't  tell 
you,  but  when  Aunt  Anne  attacked  you  so,  I  felt 
I  could  never  hold  up  my  head  again  if  I  did  n't 
confess  how  mean,  how  low  I  was,  too." 

That  frank  "too"  was  priceless. 

"Do  you  know  how  happy  you  are  making  me ? " 
asked  Bamfield.  He  tried  to  take  her  other  hand. 
She  refused  it  and  withdrew  the  one  he  already 
held. 

"Listen  to  me,"  she  said  solemnly.  "I've  been 
thinking  lots  of  things  about  you  since  last  night. 
I  hardly  slept.  This  is  n't  the  life  for  you,  unless 
you  bring  something  into  it  to  make  it  fine.  You 
can't,  you  must  n't  be  content  with  it.  I  'm  cer 
tain  you  could  do  things.  One  feels  it.  Every  one 
feels  it  who  talks  to  you.  Why  don't  you  ?" 

"What  shall  I  do?"  asked  Bamfield. 

"Why  don't  you  study  painting?  That's  a  great 
thing.  Great  men  do  it.  It's  a  fine  work —  and 
I  Ve  been  thinking  about  the  picture  you  showed 
me  last  night.  I'm  really  a  stupid  girl.  I  can't 
paint,  although  I  Ve  tried  a  little,  and  I  can't  judge 
properly,  but  I  believe  that  there's  more  in  that 
picture  than  I  understand.  I  saw  it  in  my  dream 
last  night,  and  I  seemed  to  see  it  more  really  with 
my  sleep  eyes  than  my  waking  eyes,  and  it  was 


The  Caravan  Man  347 

wonderful.  I  believe  you  might  be  a  painter  — 
perhaps  a  great  painter." 

"And  make  money?" 

("Why  the  devil  do  I  keep  on  testing  her?"  he 
asked  himself,  and  knew  that  it  was  only  for  the 
joy  of  the  unending  fineness  that  always  re 
sponded.) 

She  drew  a  sigh.  "Oh  —  yes  —  if  you  wanted 
to  so  very  much.  But  just  think!"  She  took  a 
step  towards  him  and  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm. 
"Supposing  you  were  content  not  to  make  a  lot 
of  money,  but  just  went  wandering  about  in  your 
caravan,  moving  from  one  beautiful  place  to  an 
other,  painting  as  you  went  —  perhaps  becom 
ing  a  great  painter  —  with  loveliness  all  about 
you  ?  Can't  you  see  how  rare,  how  full  of  happi 
ness  your  life  might  be?" 

"I  suppose  it  would,"  said  Bamfield.  Should 
he  tell  her  outright,  or  should  he  roll  the  morsel 
under  his  tongue  a  little  longer? 

"Then  do  it!"  said  Rose.  "Do!  The  money 
does  n't  matter.  I  know.  I  remember  how  happy 
my  father  and  I  were  in  the  old  days,  and  some 
times  there  was  no  money  at  all.  You  heard  what 
Aunt  Anne  said  just  now  —  that  money  was  what 
you  were  after?  I  don't  believe  it  of  you.  But  you 
ought  not  to  be  so  poor.  You  need  n't  be.  Why 
don't  you  try?" 

Bamfield  could  hold  it  back  no  longer.    "Very 


348  The  Caravan  Man 

well,  then,"  he  answered  in  as  dry  and  business 
like  a  fashion  as  he  could  manage.  "But  what 
about  you  if  I  do  ? " 

"What  about  me?" 

"Are  you  going  to  marry  me?" 

She  drew  a  sudden,  sharp  little  breath  and  stood 
looking  at  him  without  answer;  she  had  no  words. 

"Oh,  yes,'*  went  on  Bamfield,  with  a  touch  of 
cynical  scorn.  "I'm  to  take  your  advice,  throw 
up  my  lucrative  photographic  connection;  I'm 
to  start  a  new  career;  I'm  to  run  all  the  risk,  in 
fact  —  while  you  sit  safely  by  and  watch.  If  I 
fail,  you  look  the  other  way,  wash  your  hands  of 
the  whole  business;  if  I  win,  you  just  come  and 
say,  'I  told  you  so/  I  suppose  you  think  that 
fair?" 

She  tried  to  speak,  but  even  now,  under  this 
attack,  she  could  find  in  herself  nothing  but  pro 
test  at  his  unfairness. 

"Now,  come,"  said  Bamfield,  with  a  "posi- 
tively-the-last-offer"  air.  "Either  you're  giving 
me  a  piece  of  advice  that  costs  you  nothing  — 
which  is  what  anybody  can  do  —  or  you  mean 
what  you  say.  If  you  do  —  if  you  mean  that  you 
really  think  I  shall  make  a  painter  —  prove  it. 
Marry  me.  Marry  me  —  and  I '11  paint!" 

Rose  found  her  voice.  "But  do  you  mean  it?" 
she  asked.  "I  mean,  do  you  want  me?  Do  you  — 
care  for  me?  I'm  not  afraid  —  but  it  must  be 


The  Caravan  Man  349 

something  more  than  that.  Oh,  tell  me,  do  you 
care  for  me  —  want  me  ? " 

He  caught  both  her  hands  this  time.  She  let 
him.  He  pulled  her  close  to  him;  his  eyes  caught 
and  held  hers,  and  she  saw  the  smile  go  out  of  his 
face,  and  the  look  she  had  seen  the  night  before, 
when  he  had  kissed  her,  come  over  it.  His  voice, 
too,  was  different;  nothing  of  banter  in  it  now, 
but  an  earnestness  that  went  with  the  steady, 
compelling  power  of  his  eyes  and  the  grip  of  his 
hands  about  hers. 

"On  my  soul,  I  do!"  he  said,  and  she  knew  it 
was  true,  past  all  doubting.  "There's  nobody  else 
but  you  in  all  the  world.  And,  listen,  you  wonder 
ful  thing,  while  I  tell  you  something.  You  want  me 
to  paint.  Well,  I  do  paint.  I  'm  an  artist,  a  painter 
—  some  people  say  I  'm  a  great  painter.  Perhaps 
it's  true,  but  if  it  is  n't,  by  God,  it's  going  to  be 
one  day!  And  all  you  want  me  to  do  —  why,  my 
dear,  I  do  it  now.  The  wonderful  life  you  urge  me 
to  —  it's  mine  already.  I  do  wander  about  in  this 
caravan  from  place  to  place;  I  do  seek  for  beauty 
and  loveliness  and  paint  it  as  I  go,  not  for  money, 
but  for  the  joy  of  it.  It's  the  very  life  of  me  now. 
And  you  shall  come  with  me  and  share  it — " 

Their  lips  were  almost  touching.  He  had  drawn 
her  closer  as  he  spoke,  and  she  had  let  herself 
yield  to  the  impulse. 

"Am  I  really  to  marry  you?"  she  breathed,  rapt. 


35°  The  Caravan  Man 

"If  you  will.  Will  you?" 

She  gave  him  no  answer  except  what  her  eyes 
spoke,  and  on  that  he  stooped  and  kissed  her  lip. 
He  lifted  his  head.  She  still  looked  up  at  him,  and 
before  he  could  let  his  lips  fall  again  on  hers,  she 
said  shyly:  — 

"Then  —  do  you  mind  telling  me  your  name?" 

He  burst  out  laughing.  "Bamfield  —  not  Lord 
Bamfylde,  but  John  Martin  Bamfield.  And  lis 
ten,  Rose.  There 's  not  only  the  caravan.  That  's  for 
the  summer.  In  the  winter  we're  going  to  live  in 
my  studio  at  Primrose  Hill,  a  big  barn  of  a  place, 
with  whitewashed  walls"  —  her  eyes  began  to 
widen,  her  lips  to  part  in  the  dawn  of  a  fresh  won 
der —  "and  on  the  wall  is  a  painting,  a  sketch  in 
oils  of  a  girl's  head,  with  long  brown  hair  tumbling 
over  her  eyes,  and  she  smiles  at  you  through  her 
hair—" 

Tears  were  in  Rose's  eyes.  "Oh!"  she  trembled. 
"Don't  play  with  me!  Is  it —  is  it  really  true?" 

"Yes,  true." 

"It's  magic,"  she  said.  "Everything's  turned 
magical." 

"Of  course  it  has,"  he  answered.  "And  we've 
found  out  how  to  see  the  magic.  It's  been  my 
studio  for  nearly  six  years,  and  the  girl  whose  pic 
ture  is  on  the  wall  has  been  my  little  unknown 
sweetheart  all  the  time.  And  now  I  've  found  her, 
living  and  lovely." 


The  Caravan  Man  351 

He  kissed  her  again,  and  in  her  lips,  as  they  met 
his,  was  a  passion  of  happiness  and  gratitude  for 
this  crowning  miracle  of  the  studio. 

"And  now,"  said  he,  "I'm  going  to  tell  you 
about  that  girl  last  night  in  the  caravan.  And 
you're  going  to  laugh  —  and  'so  will  she.  She's  a 
first-rate  sort — " 

Rose  suddenly  freed  herself.  He  turned.  Un 
heard,  a  motor-car  had  been  run  across  the  com 
mon,  and  from  it  a  tallish,  white-haired  gentle 
man  had  descended  and  was  approaching  them. 
He  had  a  cane  in  one  hand  and  over  his  arm  hung 
Lady  Boulger's  frock  ...  It  looked  worse  than 
ever. 

Bamfield  let  Rose  go,  and  stood  a  pace  forward 
to  receive  whatever  was  coming.  The  old  gentle 
man  came  up  to  him. 

"Are  you  the  owner  of  this  caravan,  may  I 
ask?"  he  said  stiffly. 

"I  am,"  answered  Bamfield. 

"Then  you  are  the  perpetrator  of  the  —  the 
outrage  —  this  outrage  on  one  of  my  wife's 
dresses?" 

He  was  in  a  terrible  temper,  there  was  no  doubt 
of  that.  Bamfield  did  what  greater  men  have  done. 
He  decided  to  confuse  the  issue.  "One  of  your 
wives  —  which  wife?"  he  asked  simply. 

"Which  wife!  My  wife,  sir." 

"Oh,  yours?  —  and  where  is    she?"    All   this 


352  The  Caravan  Man 

was  very  weak,  but  it  served  its  purpose.  The  old 
gentleman  was  compelled  from  the  complanatory 
to  the  explanatory.  "My  name  is  Baddeley- 
Boulger,  of  Green  Streets.  This  dress  is  a  valuable 
one,  never  worn,  intended  as  a  present — " 

"A  present  to  your  wife,  I  presume?"  inter 
jected  Bamfield. 

The  old  gentleman  choked,  abandoned  explana 
tion  and  came  back  to  his  original  demand.  "I 
want  to  know,  I  insist  upon  knowing,  if  you  are 
responsible  for  its  present  outrageous  condition?'* 

"Well,"  began  Bamfield,  "supposing  I  am,  for 
the  sake  of  argument — " 

"I  am  not  here  to  argue;  I  am  here  for  facts." 

"Very  well,  then,  the  fact  is  that  your  wife's 
dress  and  my  best  pair  of  white  trousers  and  I 
myself  and  —  and  a  second  party  were  involved 
in  a  disastrous  affair." 

"When?" 

"Last  evening." 

"Where?" 

"In  the  pond  here." 

"But  how  the  devil  — "  He  stopped,  made  a 
terrible  effort,  collected  himself,  and  apologized 
to  Rose.  "Miss  Nieugente,  I  believe?  Forgive 
me;  I  don't  see  very  well."  He  pulled  out  a  spec 
tacle-case,  took  out  his  glasses  and  put  them  on. 
"Be  good  enough  to  tell  me  exactly  what  hap 
pened,  and  what  you  propose  to  do." 


The  Caravan  Man  353 

"It  will  be  easier  for  me  not  to  tell  you  what 
happened,"  said  Bamfield.  "Another  person  is 
concerned,  and  till  I  have  her  permission  I  can't 
very  well  give  you  an  explanation.  But  as  for  the 
dress,  why  it  seems  to  me — "  He  stopped. 

"Well,  sir?" 

" —  It's  been  very  carelessly  handled." 

Rose  intervened.  "It's  dreadful  to  look  at,  Sir 
Arthur,  but  it's  stuff  that  would  clean,  I'm  sure." 

"Oh,  but,  Miss  Nieugente  —  cleaning!  A  lovely 
fabric,  a  poetic  conception  such  as  this,  designed 
specially  for  my  wife.  It  was  for  to-night,  the  fifth 
anniversary  of  our  wedding,  a  surprise;  and  now — " 

"I  say!"  said  Bamfield  genuinely.  "I  am  so 
awfully  sorry.  It  was  a  lovely  dress;  I  don't  know 
who  designed  it — " 

"  I  designed  it  myself,  sir." 

"Well,  'pon  my  word,  I  understand  how  you 
feel,  and  I  'm  sure  Lady  Boulger  would  have  done 
you  credit  in  it.  I'm  really  not  so  responsible  as 
perhaps  you  take  me  to  be,  but  if  you'll  be  good 
enough  to  have  it  cleaned  and  will  tell  me  where, 
I'll  see,  if  you'll  allow  me,  that  Lady  Boulger  is 
not  troubled  with  the  bill." 

The  old  gentleman  was  certainly  mollified.  "I 
am  obliged,  sir,  but  it  was  not  for  that  purpose 
I  came  here.  I  rather  wanted — "  He  paused,  at 
a  loose  end.  After  all,  the  idea  of  the  cane,  he  felt, 
had  been  absurd. 


354  The  Caravan  Man 

"  Sir  Arthur,"  said  Rose,  "  I  know  just  how  you 
feel,  and  how  Lady  Boulger  must  feel.  Let  me 
introduce  —  Mr.  Bamfield,  Sir  Arthur  Baddeley- 
Boulger.  —  Let  me  have  the  dress,  and  I  '11  get  it 
cleaned  —  it  can  be  done,  I  'm  certain,  and  though 
it  will  mean  a  little  delay,  you  can  still  count  on 
seeing  Lady  Boulger  in  it,  and  she'll  look  lovely." 
She  turned  to  Bamfield.  "You'll  meet  Lady  Boul 
ger,  I  hope,  and  you'll  see  for  yourself." 

"Honk!" 

Beside  the  first  motor  a  second  had  pulled  up. 
A  lady  was  walking  rapidly  towards  them. 

"Arthur!"  she  said  to  the  old  gentleman;  then 
"Rose!"  To  Rose,  then,  "Is  that  it?  — who 
dared — ?"  as  she  caught  sight  of  the  dress;  then, 
"And  this  is  the  man?"  as  she  stepped  up  to  Bam 
field  .  .  . 

She  looked  him  over;  he  looked  at  her;  then, 
"You!"  she  said. 

"Me,"  said  Bamfield. 

They  stared  at  one  another.  She  was  as  blithe, 
her  eyes  as  fine,  her  whole  demeanour  as  frankly 
fascinating  as  when  first  he  picked  up  her  lucky 
sixpence  in  Oxford  Street. 

"Are  you  the  man?"  she  asked. 

"I  am,"  he  said.  "Is  that  your  dress?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  you're  Lady  Baddeley-Boulger?" 

"Yes,  and —  Oh,  Arthur,  Arthur!"  She  turned 


The  Caravan  Man  355 

in  greatest  excitement  to  her  husband,  took  him 
by  the  arm,  pointed  to  Bamfield.  "This  is  the 
man." 

"  I  know,  my  dear.  He  admits  it." 

"No,  no;  that's  not  what  I  mean.  I  mean,  this 
is  the  man,  Bamfield  —  the  man  you  want,  Bam 
field—  " 

The  old  gentleman  stared,  dropped  the  frock, 
came  over  to  Bamfield.  "Are  you  Bamfield  — 
J.M.  Bamfield?" 

"Yes." 

"The  painter?" 

"Yes." 

"Nudes,  I  think?" 

"Solely,  up  to  six  months  ago;  since  then  land 
scape." 

"Your  pictures  have  been  offered  through  a 
dealer  named  Iff — " 

.?*" — elstein.  I  kicked  him  into  the  pond  last 
night.  He  is  now  in  the  hands  of  the  police,  but 
there's  no  chance  of  his  remaining  there." 

The  old  gentleman  shook  his  hand  heartily. 
"Let  me  introduce  myself.  You  know  my  wife. 
My  name  is  Baddeley-Boulger  of —  Oh,  I  think 
I  told  you." 

"Pleased  to  know  you." 

"A  collector  of  pictures,  and  I  think,  regarded 
as  not  only  an  authority  on  modern  art  and  artists, 
but  as  some  one  other  collectors  are  inclined  to 


3  5  6  The  Caravan  Man 

follow.  I  will  only  say  that  I  am  delighted,  after 
all,  at  the  mishap  to  the  dress  which  has  enabled 
me  to  make  your  acquaintance.  I  have  been  buy 
ing  your  pictures.  My  wife's  request  induced  me 
to  discover  where  I  could  find  them  for  sale,  and 
I  had  no  hesitation  in  recognizing  you  as  a  master. 
Yours  is  a  case,  Mr.  Bamfield,  of  a  great  genius 
in  art  stepping  easily  and  early  into  fame — " 

"Easily  and  early!"  said  Bamfield  bitterly. 
"Do  you  know  I'm  thirty-three?" 

"As  young  as  that?"  said  Sir  Arthur.  "Mar 
vellous  !  To  think  of  the  years  of  triumph  that  lie 
before  you.  Mr.  Bamfield,  you  must  let  me  touch 
on  the  subject  —  my  wife  has  told  me  something 
of  your  affairs  —  your  pictures  are  now  fetching 
from  two  hundred  to  five  hundred  guineas  apiece, 
and  I  predict  a  place  for  you  not  only  among  the 
artists  of  to-day,  but  among  the  great  men  of  all 
times." 

Bamfield  felt  a  little  breathless,  but  he  instinc 
tively  turned  to  Rose,  and  put  out  his  hand. 

She  caught  it  in  hers.  "Will  it  spoil  our  cara 
van?"  she  whispered. 

"No,  by  Jove,  it  shan't,"  he  told  her. 

Lady  Boulger  took  Bamfield's  arm,  gave  Rose 
a  glance.  "Now  you  know  my  name,  don't  you 
admire  it?" 

"  I  admire  everything  about  you  —  as  I  did 
from  the  first." 


The  Caravan  Man  357 

She  nodded,  well  pleased.  "YouVe  taken  my 
advice,  then?" 

"Yes." 

"There's  only  one  thing  —  I  wanted  it  to  be  the 
little  girl  in  the  studio  wall." 

"Sheis/'saidBamfield. 

"WHAT?" 

"She  is." 

"WHAT!  ! !" 

"She  is,"  repeated  Bamfield,  and  told  her  all 
about  it. 


THE  END 


Cbe 

CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U    .   S   .   A 


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